Blade of the Emperor
by UnsureHistorian
Summary: When the Blades were disbanded at the end of the Great War, Eduard of Farrun was forced to abandon his love and all that he knew to go into hiding. Betrayed twenty-six years later, he is discovered by the Thalmor just as the Last Dragonborn reveals himself. Will Eduard be able to escape and help guide the Dovahkiin to his fated meeting with Alduin - and beyond to his final destiny?
1. Shadows of the Past: Prologue

**Author's Note**

If you've read my other Elder Scrolls story, The Sun's Despite, you know that I often write from a different perspective than might be expected. In the case of that particular story, despite its focus on my Imperial Dragonborn Brandon of Cyrodiil, little of it is actually written from his viewpoint. Blade of the Emperor follows that convention; although the story itself revolves around the life and adventures of Brandon of Cyrodiil, the primary viewpoint character - there will be others - will be Eduard of Farrun, a character who will be introduced in the next chapter.

Based on the outline as it currently stands, this story will be divided into three books of around twenty to thirty chapters each. The first book, Shadows of the Past, consists of Eduard's first-hand account of his life up to and through the Great War between the Empire and the Aldmeri Dominion. I intend to write one chapter a week, and will generally upload that chapter on Monday, around 5.00 PST.

The story is rated M primarily for language and violence, though some sexuality will be present later on.

As a side note, the way that I break up my writing is suited for the way I normally read stories: with the 1/2 story width option. I recommend that as the best way to read this story.

Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy this story.

* * *

**Blade of the Emperor**

**Book I: Shadows of the Past**

**Prologue**

* * *

Solitude, Imperial Province of Skyrim, Summer 4E201

The sun had just set, but its presence still lurked just beyond the horizon, limning the mountains with a golden light. Just down the hill, beyond the high walls of Solitude, where the streets were quieting from the day's business, and citizens were slowly returning home, there stood two individuals of equal stature beside a simple open carriage.

"You're sure you remember the plan?" inquired the woman, her voice, tempered with an audible air of age and experience, conveyed a deep sense of doubt only brought about through long and painful experience. She was tall for a woman, and the years she had obviously seen lay lightly upon her; though her fifty-sixth winter had passed only months ago, she seemed no more than a day over thirty - it was her eyes alone which carried the weight of years. Her long, lustrous, blonde hair was bound in a severe ponytail, and her lissome shape was revealed even beneath the thick leather armor she wore.

The man - barely more than a boy - across from her sighed indignantly and, in dismay, ran his hand slowly through his short brown hair. "Of course, Delphine; we've been over it a hundred times."

"We have not," came the annoyed reply, "though we would have done, if this was a proper operation..."

"Come on," yelled the impatient driver, "I haven't got all bloody day." Delphine tossed him another septim to shut him up.

"That reminds me," she added, "you can't go to a party at the Thalmor Embassy dressed like that." She gestured towards his armor with a dismissive hand and held out a bundle of clothes with the other. "Put these on," she directed firmly.

Brandon's eyes widened, and looked worriedly at their surroundings. "What, here - now?"

"I have seen a naked man before, Brandon," Delphine remarked airily, but she turned her back and motioned towards a concealed area which offered the opportunity of refuge. Brandon gratefully retreated to it, and after a few moments, emerged divested of his arms and armor and dressed formally in simple but elegant attire.

Delphine took his gear with a silent reassurance of their security.

"Now," she said, turning to face him, "from the beginning." Brandon sighed loudly, but complied.

"I arrive at the embassy-"

Delphine raised a hand and cut him off. "Cover first; then execution." She chose to ignore the exaggerated roll of his eyes as he continued.

"Velus of Bruma, twenty-three, leader of a small mercenary band come to Skyrim to offer our services; obtained an invitation through contacts with the East Empire Company in order to find wealthy employers seeking security in these troubled times."

He paused until Delphine nodded her head in approval, and then continued.

"I use the invitation to get past the door, mingle for a while and make a few business propositions, then cause a disturbance somehow. Under that cover, Malborn will sneak me out, I'll get my gear, find Elenwen's office, find out what she knows about the dragons, and then sneak out."

"Good enough, I suppose." Brandon grimaced; the carriage driver yelled that they would be late for the party.

Delphine sighed. "Good luck, Brandon. Gods willing, I'll see you soon back in Riverwood."

The young man nodded and, unused to the delicate material of his new clothes, climbed gingerly into the wooden carriage's seat. The night was fully upon them now, and the moons shone brightly above, promising to light the road ahead.

Soon enough the carriage disappeared down the road, leaving Delphine alone in the night. She remembered another time, many years past, when it was she who had been the young novice beginning her first clandestine operation.

Hearing footsteps behind her, she turned, and with her mind still trapped within shadows of the past, her eyes widened as a ghost seemed to walk down the path towards her: the same walk, the same build - she blinked, and then he was gone, a city guard in his place with a guttering torch in one hand.

"Are you all right, miss?" the guard asked, genuine concern in his voice. "We'll be closing the gates soon - you'd best get inside the city if that's where you're headed."

The guard watched cautiously as Delphine, unable to speak, shook her head.

"Are you sure, miss? I'll walk back with you, if you like."

"No. Thank you, you're very kind." She wiped a hand across her eyes before turning away from the guard and walking back down the road until finally turning from the road and slipping noiselessly into the trees.

The guard watched the strange woman all the while, his thoughts turning over past experiences and wondering what business had brought her to Solitude and that now sent her into the wilds of its surroundings. Soon enough, though, his thoughts turned to the warm barracks behind him, and a soft bed and warm mead, and he slowly turned and went back towards the warmth and shelter of his comrades.

* * *

Night animals sounded in protest as the carriage's iron-rimmed wheels clattered harshly against the cobblestone road, and Brandon unconsciously clenched and unclenched his fingers in a reflexive attempt to relieve his nerves; never before had he been so anxious - not even at Windhelm, when the Stormcloaks had so bravely faced them across that silent field of snow.

The lights of the Thalmor embassy began to grow in the distance, and far more swiftly than he might have wished, the carriage slid to a halt in front of the buildings entrance. A pair of Thalmor guards stood watch over the door, their brightly plumed golden armor glinted sharply in the moonlight, and Brandon hesitated before leaving the carriage.

The driver swiveled in his seat and directed a final question at his passenger. "Do you want me to wait for you, sir?"

"No," Brandon replied, shaking his head, and turned back towards the embassy; the driver shrugged, and clattered off down the road. Finally, Brandon was alone. He breathed deep of the chill air, the cold burning his lungs invigorated him and gave him the strength to push forward.

"Whups!"

Brandon felt a shoulder strike his own, and staggered from the impact; a wave of stench wafted over him: the breath of an alcoholic.

"Sorry friend, I'm a little … hips … hips …" the other man paused to find the correct word. "Tipsy!" he concluded, his voice a chorus of triumph.

"A fellow late-comer," he continued making a sweeping expansive gesture which managed to include Brandon, the embassy, and the Thalmor guards in one broad stroke.

"Yes," came Brandon's stiff reply as he straightened and brushed an errant bit of snow from his clothes.

The redguard, undaunted by the distinct chill Brandon was emitting, had apparently become convinced that they were comrades-in-arms. An arm extended itself around Brandon's shoulders. "Name's Razelan, friend. What brings you to Elenwen's little soirée?"

Brandon glanced desperately around for an escape, but the heartless Thalmor wizard refused to meet his eye.

"Business," he finally replied, hoping that such a vague and consequently impolite answer would discourage further inquiry, but it merely spurred the other man on.

"Ah! I as well, my friend - though if you keep it between the two of us, I'll wager few people come to these parties for any other reason." Razelan smirked, and this shared secret became further glue on their relationship. Brandon sighed, and gave up. The pair turned, Razelan's arm still wrapped around Brandon's shoulders, and crossed the short distance to the Thalmor gatekeeper.

"Lost my way coming up the hill," Razelan explained his tardiness to the Altmer before extending his invitation, "couldn't find the damned road in all the snow." Brandon rather expected that his state of intoxication had far more to do with it than the light snowfall, but chose to say nothing; the Thalmor simply nodded disinterestedly and deposited their invitations in his voluminous robes.

"Enjoy the party, gentlemen." They nodded a civil, but wordless response as they swept past.

"Now what kind of business do you do, my friend?" The Redguard's gaze was cunning, and Brandon's previous anxiety began to creep back into the edges of his mind.

"Services of all kinds," he began expansively, then paused, trying to get into character, "but mostly I provide... security, in troubled times. And these are troubled times, would you not agree?" This question was delivered with a meaningful glance, and Razelan received it knowingly.

"Indeed, my friend, indeed. Shadows crowd around us daily, and such men who may stand against them are in great demand these days." Razelan nodded sagely before continuing; they had almost reached the embassy's ornate doorway. "I, however, am merely a simply official of the East Empire Company. It is a humble calling, but one which possesses certain... perks."

Brandon arched an eyebrow, but at that moment they passed through the doors and were greeted by the bright light of lamps and the sound of a party in full swing. He gently disentangled himself from the other man and straightened, relieved of the burden of Razelan's weight. There, standing before him in robes of splendid black cloth and gold trim, was she who could only be Elenwen - the Thalmor ambassador. She greeted Razlan first, with evident distaste, but the cheerful and intoxicated Redguard took no notice and after perfunctory pleasantries ambled towards the bar to drink in isolation.

When her gaze turned to Brandon, he finally understood why the Thalmor were so feared: her eyes, set deep within high cheekbones, were cruel and penetrating; the kind of eyes which seemed to reveal everything which you had once thought hidden.

"Forgive me, but I do not remember having the pleasure of your attendance before." Her thin lips pressed firmly together at the conclusion of her statement, and Brandon knew that here was a woman to be cautious around.

"Velus of Bruma, at your service. And I assure you, Madame Ambassador, that the pleasure is all mine." Brandon gave a slight bow - a courtesy she did not return - and caught a flash of amusement in her eyes at his blatant flattery.

"And what kind of services might you be a provider of, Velus of Bruma?" Brandon straightened and, after a pause, decided on a simple answer.

"I am the captain of a small band of mercenaries, madame ambassador; we have come to Skyrim due to the recent... conflagration. Work surely will find us in Skyrim, and what better place to look than here, at the center of the province's politics?"

"Surely," she questioned, "a mercenary would much prefer a contract without the possibility of violence?"

"That is my position entirely, madame," Brandon replied earnestly, "but such plums are only appetizing when one's company is full of seasoned men; such men are rare these days, and I am ashamed to admit that mine are in some need of tempering."

"And the only true test..." she left the thought unspoken, but Brandon nodded in affirmation.

"Very good," she concluded, and seemed on the verge of broaching another topic when a voice broke in and interrupted their conversation.

"Excuse me, madame ambassador?"

Elenwen sighed deeply and closed her eyes, as if summoning up the last reserves of an almost-depleted patience. "What is it, Malborn?" she asked, as Brandon breathed an internal sigh of relief.

"Forgive me madame ambassador, but we've run out of the Alto Wine - do I have your permission to uncork the-"

"Of course!" she said stridently, "I've told you before not to bother me with such trifles!"

Appearing suitably chastened, the wood elf lowered his eyes and replied with a meek "yes, madame ambassador."

Elenwen turned back to Brandon. "My apologies," she breathed, "we'll have to get better acquainted later." Brandon nodded his head in quiet acceptance, but as she turned to go he had caughts something very like hunger in her eyes - whether of lust or a hunger of another darker, more insidious and calculating kind, Brandon did know. His traitorous mind briefly imagined he and Elenwen entwined on a couch and - when the subject of his involuntary imaginings had her back safely to him - he shuddered, and approached the bar. Malborn eyed him disinterestedly.

Checking surreptitiously around to ensure no eavesdroppers were within easy hearing, Brandon quietly inquired as to whether Malborn was ready.

"Yes sir," came the loud reply, "one colovian brandy coming right up." And then, more softly, "We'll need a distraction. I can't sneak you out otherwise."

"What?" demanded Brandon, but Malborn silenced him with a gesture, and Brandon was forced to move out into the party itself. There must have been thirty guests, and none that Brandon knew - fortunate indeed.

But how to create a distraction? Brandon turned the problem in his head over and over but came up blank. So deep in thought was he, as he threaded his careful way through the partygoers, that he almost collided with General Tullius and Legate Rikke - who had apparently just arrived.

"Brandon," said the general in evident, but mild, surprise, "what in oblivion are you doing here?"

Brandon, surprised in his own right, started so much that he almost spilled his colovian brandy.

"Sir?" He glanced at the Legate, and just barely resisted the urge to salute. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Elenwen take notice of the meeting and begin to slowly move her way towards them.

"It's Velus, now, sir - ma'am," he whispered desperately, and nodded to the legate.

Tullius' eyes narrowed. "Just what are you playing at, son?" But before Brandon could try to answer that question, Elenwen descended upon them, her hawk-like eyes missing nothing, Brandon was sure, not even the drops of colovian brandy which were sliding gently down the side of his goblet.

"I take it you three have met before." It was not a question.

The general began to answer, but Rikke was there before him. "We have, Madame Ambassador, Second-Spear Centurion Velus commanded a century in my third cohort some years back."

Elenwen simply inspected Brandon more closely. "Indeed?" she said lightly, "I am very happy to have brought about this reunion of old comrades-in-arms. Please, do not let me interrupt this moment." She retired gracefully, her eyes lingering on Brandon's.

The three drew aside, away from prying ears. "What in oblivion is this about, son?"

"I can't tell you sir, I'm sorry. Please, you must just trust me." Tullius held his gaze for several long moments before turning to Rikke, who gave a subtle nod of her head.

"All right, Brandon. Is there anything we can do to help?"

"I need a distraction, something that will draw everyone's attention." They were speaking softly, beneath the growing buzz of party-talk and ebullience of alcohol.

Rikke frowned, her blue eyes casting about the embassy's interior. "I don't know, Brandon, subterfuge isn't really my thing..." She unconsciously chewed her lip, deep in consideration. "Certainly a flamboyant drunk might do the trick." She grinned. "It's not a Nord party without at least one drunken rant - maybe even a fight." A light was in her eyes, but the general quickly intervened before her Nordic enthusiasm could run away from her.

"Don't be foolish, Rikke," he broke in, "it can't be one of us." The legate looked disappointed, but bowed to the wisdom of the statement. An Imperial Legion officer starting a fight at a Thalmor ambassador's party was quite simply a recipe for disaster, one which would draw further attention to this particular instance, and the guests which had been in attendance - attention which Brandon did not want.

But what about a regular drunk? Someone the Thalmor were accustomed to tolerating, and who, by chance, had just one drink too many...

"Wish me luck," he said, and with a parting look at each of them, he slipped away into the party.

"Well," said the legate, "he always was a fickle soldier - smart though, through and through."

"Hmm," grunted the general, and shrugged his aging shoulders, in a gesture which seemed to say that though Brandon certainly was clever, he was unpredictable, and sometimes that threatened to be his undoing.

The general had very expressive shoulders.

By the time this exchange had run its brief course, Brandon had made his way across the room to where he had spotted Ravelan seated on a bench by the wall, drink in hand.

"Ah! My friend," he slurred as Brandon approached and took a seat beside him, nodding in greeting. Brandon sipped his brandy. They sat in companionable silence as twos and threes drifted by them, consumed in politics of a business or personal nature.

"Would you do me a favor?" The rather blunt promulgation of this somewhat bald and unusual request - in circumstance, at least, and certainly in the brevity of their relationship - did not seem to be registered by the listing Redguard, who merely nodded happily.

"Anything for you, my friend, anything. What do you need?" His breath nearly knocked Brandon from his seat, but he persevered.

"I need a distraction. I need everyone's eyes on you."

"Aha! I knew it," said Ravelan, rather more loudly than might have otherwise been preferable, causing a few indignant glances to be shot their way. Brandon ignored them, and leaned back in his seat, the picture of nonchalance as Ravelan tapped a sly index finger to the side of his nose before poking Brandon in the chest with it. "So you can make off with that pretty serving-maid, I'll wager. I thought I saw your glance stray her way." Brandon flushed involuntarily and looked away; causing Ravelan's grin to grow only broader as he winked conspicuously. "You've come to the right man, my friend. Causing a scene is something of a specialty of mine."

He staggered to his feet and began making his way towards Elenwen, shoving guests aside and spilling brandy in such a wide arc that Brandon found it hard to believe that so much liquid had found a home in such a deceptively small container.

Brandon slipped back towards the bar, where Malborn was waiting, catching the eyes of Rikke and Tullius as he went.

"Attention please!" Shouted Ravelan. "Attention!" A general muttering had begun amongst the guests, as Elenwen turned her baleful glare to the boisterous Redguard.

All eyes were on Ravelan as he began his toast, and Malborn and Brandon slipped unnoticed through a door and into the kitchens. The large room was dimly light by a flickering fireplace and a few small lamps. The Khajiit cook, standing by a wooden table near the fire, raised her head and pricked her ears at their entrance.

"Who comes, Malborn? You know I don't like strange smells in my kitchen." Her low voice, strangely accented, carried clearly across the silent room.

"A guest feeling ill," explained Malborn, not taking the time to stop, "leave the poor wretch be."

"A guest?" objected the cook, "in the kitchens?" She paused as Malborn opened the larder door and motioned for Brandon to enter. "You know this is against the rules." A latent threat lingered in the air behind her words, but Malborn had done his work well, and was prepared.

"Rules, is it, Tsavani?" his tone was cutting, "I didn't realize that eating moon sugar was permitted. Perhaps I should ask the ambassador..." he trailed off, leaving the suggestion hanging.

The Khajiit hissed sharply and turned away. "Get out of here. I saw nothing."

Malborn shut the door and handed Brandon a bundle of clothes. "Here, put these on." Brandon unfolded them; it was a Thalmor robe.

"You can't be serious."

"Put them on! If I'm missed at the party we're both dead." He indicated the hood of the long, black garment. "Pull that up, and from a distance no one will be able tell the difference."

"Do you have a weapon for me, at least?" Malborn wordlessly thrust a large sheathed dagger and a pair of lockpicks into Brandon's hands, and closed the larder door behind him. Brandon was on his own. He inspected the dagger briefly: an elven piece, and sighed.

The robes fit him, barely, but they wouldn't stand more than a cursory inspection, even from a distance. Steeling himself, he opened the larder's other door and entered the embassy proper.

As he crept slowly along the wall, Brandon let his hand stray to the hilt of the elven dagger strapped about his waist. He clenched it, his knuckles whitening beneath the black leather Thalmor gloves, his footfalls softened by the supple leather soles of his boots.

Voices emanated softly from a room, several individuals, and Brandon froze to listen, but it was just the typical rumor-mongering common to all soldiers everywhere. The small group of elves - the room was evidently the barracks for Elenwen's guard - were clustered around the bunk of the one telling the story, something about a new Thalmor agent who had arrived a week ago to interrogate a prisoner.

Slipping past the barracks door, he pondered what he had learned. A prisoner? Might it have something to do with the dragons? There had been little other than gossip and speculation, but from the way they were talking, it sounded like the prisoner was being kept at some place outside of the embassy - in Elenwen's solar they had said.

There was only one other building in the compound, but that meant going outside, with only the slim disguise hiding him from discovery. But that was probably where Elenwen kept her sensitive materials anyway - and information on the return of the dragons would almost certainly fall into that - admittedly loose - category. And could he really leave someone to the mercy of the Thalmor?

Fortunately, the embassy was deserted, its staff all involved in the party. Brandon found a side door which was unguarded, and emerged into the chill night. Snow crunched beneath his boots as he crossed the courtyard to the rear of the embassy.

Two guards stood silhouetted against the starlight, but they did not turn, and Brandon reached the door to the tall, slender building without incident. It was locked, of course, but Brandon swiftly picked the simple lock with a few quick motions and slipped inside. The door shut behind him without a sound, and there was a Thalmor guard, seated at the table, his back carelessly to the door.

It all happened so quickly for Brandon: he drew his dagger, crossed soundlessly to the seated soldier, and drew the blade across the elf's throat. The half-loaf of bread that the elf had been eating dropped to the floor as his lifeblood flooded out over Brandon's hand; a sad, pathetic gurgle emanated from the soldier's mouth, and he slumped against the back of his chair, a hand clawing weakly against the killer he could not see.

Then he was dead, and Brandon wiped the dagger clean of blood on the hem of the tablecloth. Still streaked with blood, he thrust it back into its sheath, and drew the dead elf's sword from its scabbard, and advanced further into the solar.

A voice called out: the soldier's buddy, no doubt. Brandon froze, and when an answer was not forthcoming, the voice called again, soon followed by another Thalmor soldier - hand on sword. Brandon rushed her, but a table was in the way, so she had time to clear her blade and bring it up to block Brandon's first blow.

She beat his blade and made her own attack, going for Brandon's abdomen, trying to take advantage of his unarmored state. He moved with the blow, evading it and then striking it with his own, adding force to swing; she lost her balance, turning away from Brandon and he twirled to bring his stolen sword streaking down on the unarmored joint at her elbow. The blade cut through the cloth and flesh and tendon between the bones, and the elf woman screamed as her arm fell to the floor. She closed her eyes with the pain, and did not see the blade that pierced her throat and ended her life.

Had someone heard?

Brandon searched desperately, every fiber of his being tensed to the danger of discovery. In a desk drawer he found a key carelessly stored, which he pocketed, and a bookcase full of files. They were thick, bulky, and crudely band - clearly working documents, and Brandon rifled through them, discarding those without interest to the floor in his haste.

After what felt like an eternity, he found two that answered his needs: one entitled simply "The Blades" and the other "Dragons." There was no time to read through them now; he would have to wait until he was reunited with Delphine in Riverwood.

Now to find the prisoner.

Partitioned from the rest of the solar was a wooden stairway, leading down to a darkened door. The steps creaked under Brandon's weight as he descended, stolen sword in one hand, files in the other.

Placing an ear against the wood of the door, Brandon listened intently for any sound of movement; there was nothing. Slowly, Brandon inserted the key in the lock, turned the handle and pushed the door forward. Within lay a row of cells, only one of which was occupied; the pathetic form of the occupant was wasted and bloodied. The faint smell of blood and urine lingered in the room, though it was clearly cleaned daily.

Torches guttered along the wall, occasionally emitting spurts of sparks which crackled and drifted their way to the rush-covered floor. The man quickly registered Brandon's presence and began to shout in protest. His voice was cracked and broken as he pleaded with Brandon, seeing only the Thalmor robes, and not the man inside them.

Brandon pushed back his hood and the man froze, then started shaking his head slowly.

"Go away," he begged, "I know you're not real. Please just leave me alone."

As Brandon carefully picked the lock, he observed the prisoner. Average height, lean, with the whip-like build of a thief or pickpocket. Bruises and small cuts covered his body, and his eyes had a haunted, defeated quality.

The lock clicked and Brandon swung open the heavy iron door; the man hung his head, his spirit clearly broken - he had surrendered already to whatever Brandon wished to do with him. He only looked up when Brandon released the fetters holding him upright against the brick wall of his cell.

"Come on," said Brandon, "we're getting out of here."

The man looked blankly at him. "Okay, sure, whatever you say." He was unsteady on his legs, so Brandon helped him to one of the two chairs in the room before he turned to rifle through the storage chests lining the walls. There were several sets of dirty cotton clothes in one of them, and Brandon took one for himself and one for the prisoner.

He took off the Thalmor robes, and dressed hurriedly in the plain clothes before handing the second set to the prisoner. They were lice-ridden and disgusting, but they would blend in far better than an Imperial in Thalmor robes. The other man dressed gingerly, and received the dagger and a torch from Brandon with a questioning look.

"Let's go."

Brandon had to support the prisoner on his shoulder, for he was still too weak to walk. A locked grate in the floor, apparently used for disposing of the water used to mop up the floors, gave them an exit. The elven sword Brandon still carried cut through the rusty iron lock, and they slipped, one after the other, through the hole and into a natural stone tunnel.

The tunnel's chill took their breath away; even in the dungeon above, it had been warm, but here in the native rock, they could see their breath misting in the torch's guttering light. Beneath their feet lay a thick slurry of half-frozen blood, feces, and urine.

At least, Brandon thought, the cold will spare us the stench.

They crept slowly through the widening channel, careful to stay on the higher sides of the cave to avoid wetting their boots in the filth that had collected over long years of disposal. Soon, though, they saw moonlight and stars, and were out in the open air: they were free once more.

The prisoner took a deep breath, and smiled wearily. He was able to stand on his own now, and the two made their way quietly through the forest. Even there the cold was brutal, as the roughspun tunics they wore did little to stave off the frost. It was a clear night, and Brandon navigated by the stars, soon placing them on the main road to Solitude.

Watchfires burned on the walls, and Brandon could just make out the silhouetted guards standing atop the fortification.

And there, below the strong, high walls of the city, were the stables. The pair hurried up to the main building and knocked loudly on the door. A long moment passed without answer, before Brandon again hammered the hilt of his sword on the doorframe.

"I'm up, blast you," came a response at last, and the door opened a crack, letting candlelight flood out into the night. "What are ye wantin' at this hour? Speak! Or I'll call the watch on ye!"

"We need passage to Whiterun," was Brandon's answer, and gold flashed in his palm; the carriage-driver calmed at the sight of it and looked them both over suspiciously before sighing.

"Half a minute, and we'll be gone." The door closed, leaving Brandon and the prisoner alone once more in the night.

Although it really was only half a minute, it felt like forever to them; each night sound was amplified and transformed by their overactive fears into Thalmor soldiers and agents creeping up in ambush. Soon enough, though, the driver emerged and hitched up his team to the carriage, and they were off.

The journey was long and hard; their fears kept them moving at night and without a fire, to avoid leaving any sign of their passing.

When they arrived in Whiterun it was early morning, and both Brandon and the prisoner were sore from the journey; but they were alive.

Brandon tossed the driver a bag of coins, which he caught with surprising alacrity. "You never saw us, understand?" The driver nodded and clattered off to the Whiterun stables, hoping to pick up another ride.

The pair were silent for a moment as they watched the carriage shrink in the distance.

"Listen," said the prisoner, "you didn't have to help me, so... thanks." Brandon smiled. "My name's Etienne. If you're ever in Riften, well, I owe you a drink."

"I'm Brandon. And I'll take you up on that drink."

Etienne waved and they parted. Brandon sighed and turned down the southern road, heading for Riverwood.

He spent the nights under the stars, and though it was still chill, summer near Whiterun was far more forgiving than in the mountains of Haafingar, and he slept well, enjoying the sound of the wind in the trees, and starlight on his face.

By late afternoon a few days later, Brandon reached the town, and saw that the Jarl had sent a company of soldiers to defend Riverwood, but Brandon couldn't really see the point. There might have been twenty men in the new garrison, and there was no way they could defend the town if a dragon actually attacked.

The inn had few patrons when Brandon entered, but a bard was plucking his lyre, and a few disconsolate drunks slumped against tables and benches. A fire was already going in the huge pit in the middle. Delphine was back in her innkeeper clothes, and it took Brandon a second to recognize her; already he was more accustomed to thinking of her in armor with a sword at her hip, but she caught his eye and nodded, leading him towards the attic room.

Brandon closed the door behind him, and asked conversationally, where Orgnar - Delphine's barkeeper - was. She looked askance at him as she opened the bookcase's secret entranceway.

"Is he not sweeping the entrance?"

Brandon shook his head, and Delphine huffed. "That man."

The flicker of a smile creased Brandon's face, but he quickly suppressed it and followed her down into the basement.

Maps and countless other papers covered the plain wooden table which dominated the room's center; weapon racks and an armor stand covered one wall; a few chests and a bookcase occupied the remaining space.

"So," Delphine began as Brandon surveyed the room, "what did you find?" By way of answer, Brandon pulled the pair of bound documents from his bag and deposited them gently on the table. They rested there for a moment, their thick, crude leather covers carrying errant traces of their weeks-long journey; the road had not been kind to them. Delphine took a visible breath, as if gathering her courage, and slid the twin volumes toward her. The cover creaked as she gently opened the file, and her eyes began to flick across the page with a rapidity which startled Brandon.

She flicked a wrist in the vague direction of one of the wooden chests against the wall, as if in dismissal: "your gear is in that chest over there." Brandon inclined his head in acknowledgement and slowly collected his armor and weapons which - true to her word - Delphine had safely conducted back to her - he still hesitated to say their - hideout. He watched the former Blade out of the corner of his eye as he strapped his sword about his waist; the silvered hilt and chaising of the scabbard glinted even in the torch-lit interior of the basement. In a small, mean corner of his mind, Brandon wondered - truly - how much Delphine was really interested in helping him, and how much of this was just her own agenda.

"Brandon." Her eyes never left the page. "Be a dear and have Orgnar make us something to eat - and a pot of ale too, I should think, or maybe cider, if he has any left."

Brandon watched her for a moment, but she never once looked at him until at last he relented and turned to exit the room. He felt, rather than saw, her eyes follow him up the stairs and out the secret door.

The inn was still relatively lifeless when he reentered it, but Orgnar had returned; the tall man's eyes watched Brandon's approach with a mixture of curiosity and disdain. The barkeeper scrubbed the bar intently, ignoring Brandon's expectant air. A long minute passed before Brandon cleared his throat. Orgnar looked up, feigning surprise.

"Something you want, friend?"

"Yeah. Two meals and a pot of beer. Friend." The two men stared each other down; the other patrons of the inn began turning their attention towards the bar - the tone of voice was unmistakable; a fight was brewing.

But Orgnar only shrugged and took up his cloth once more, scrubbing invisible dirt from the spotless bar. "Don't have none."

"Really."

A silent nod was the only response Brandon received. A spare smile creased Brandon's face as he threw a few septims onto the bar; the gold coins clinked and clattered against each other and the hard wood. Orgnar watched them without interest. "How about now?"

"Might do," said the big nord. Brandon arched an eyebrow in mock-surprise, but said nothing. "Just give me a moment; there might be some stew on the fire that I could round up." The barkeeper disappeared into the kitchen and Brandon began to smell a warm, if not entirely appetising fragrance emanating from the same general direction. He drummed his fingers against the wood of the bar, and leaned against it, looking around at the few other patrons, returned now to their own interests.

When Orgnar returned, he held two bowls of a thick, brothy stew, and a small pot of ale that smelled a little sour to Brandon. But when Brandon reached out to take them, Orgnar pulled them back out of Brandon's grasp.

"You watch yourself around Delphine, stranger. I'm not sure what's made her take a fancy to a pup like you, but you just mind your manners and keep your damn hands to yourself. You hear me?"

Brandon only stared at him, speechless; then the moment broke and he laughed shortly. "Of course," he agreed, reaching out to take the food and ale, "whatever you say." The mirth Orgnar had inspired in him lasted all the way down the stairs, and he was still chuckling softly to himself when he opened the door to Delphine's basement.

She was still engrossed in the first volume, but his entry brought her attention away from whatever details she was reading. Brandon handed her a bowl of stew without comment, but her curious look elicited something of an explanation.

"You might want to let Orgnar know that you have no... ulterior motives when we go into this room." Delphine looked at him blankly for a moment and then rolled her eyes in exasperation as she poured herself a glass of ale. "What have you found out so far?"

"Not much," she shrugged, "nothing concrete, at least. It seems the Thalmor are as much in the dark as we are." She paused, considering, and then grinned: a hard, mirthless, expression. "They seem to be of the opinion that the Blades are somehow behind it. How ironic: the two old enemies blaming each other for a common evil." Brandon said nothing; Delphine paused, lost in memories of a different time. The food and ale remained on the table, forgotten.

"What about the other one?" he finally asked, disturbing Delphine's ruminations.

"Hmm?" she murmured as she pulled the other volume towards her and opened it. "I haven't examined it yet." A few moments passed as her eyes traveled up and down page after page. "It appears to be a record of information on all known Blade agents - constantly updated as the Thalmor tracked them down and eliminated them. See," she pointed to a place on the page, "it lists name and status, then a page number for their full entry." She glanced through another few pages. "I am shocked that you were able to find such a valuable document - it is a copy, certainly, but even so..." Delphine shook her head. "Careless."

A certain paleness came over Delphine's features as she continued to read through the Thalmor's handiwork. "All dead," she whispered, "I had thought that some, at least..." she trailed off, barely restrained agony deeply coloring her tone. Brandon moved closer to her, but she waved him off and continued.

From his new vantage, Brandon could see that each page consisted of long lists of names, each one, without fail, drawn through with a thin red line - a line whose meaning was unmistakable.

"All those people were Blades?"

Delphine shrugged. "Not really. There's a misconception about the Blades - one we do our best to perpetuate. Not every Blades agent is an actual Blade. The Blades - the real Blades - were-" she paused and corrected herself, "-are descended from the Akaviri Dragonguard, who defended Reman Cyrodiil and all those emperors who followed him. The others, our agents, comprise the list here." She pinched a few pages together and held them up; Brandon estimated that many hundreds - perhaps thousands - of names lay coldly upon that parchment.

"But for the most part they were not inducted into the Blades; they were tools, instruments, servants: agents. I do not know for sure how many we maintained throughout the empire; I do not believe anyone knew, exactly, perhaps not even the Grandmaster." She sighed. "Now we have none."

"And the others?"

"The others?" she echoed, and met his questioning eyes, "My brothers... there were perhaps five hundred spread around the empire, mostly in groups of fifty to one hundred, concentrated at places like Cloud Ruler Temple, or Sky Haven here in Skyrim. But they were the real Blades, the ones in Akaviri armor, dedicated to guarding the emperor and his line down through the ages."

Delphine flipped the page and began reading anew. From over her shoulder Brandon again saw the long lines of red, telling of the far-off, lonely death of one of Delphine's comrades. "Lorkhan's Heart," she swore, and Brandon saw her shoulders slump a little.

Suddenly she froze, her eyes glued to the page she had just turned.

"What is it?"

Delphine shook her head to silence him, and flipped forward many pages and began reading intently. She flipped forward again, to the second entry.

"Lorkhan's Heart," she swore again, and sank back into a wooden chair; to Brandon's shock, he saw that she was trembling.

"Delphine. What is it?" Brandon's voice was tense, he had never seen her - could not have imagined her - to act in this way.

She passed a hand across her eyes before looking up at him.

"I need you to go to Riften," her voice was soft, almost weak; she seemed suddenly very tired. Brandon stared at her. "There's a man there, Brynjolf; find him and ask him about a man named Esbern - he was a Blade before the Great War, and this" she gestured to the dossier, " says that he's been hiding in the Ratways with Brynjolf's help, but the Thalmor have found him out. You need to hurry or they'll get to him first. Esbern was always fascinated with dragon lore, so it's no surprise the Thalmor would take even more interest in him. It's a miracle he survived this long at all..." She trailed off, leaving Brandon still stunned..

"Why should he trust me?" he managed, finally.

Delphine frowned, considering. "True," she agreed, "he always was a paranoid old codger," she grinned and looked up at Brandon, "even more than me." She paused again. "Ask him where he was on the 30th of Frostfall - that ought to do it."

"Why not come yourself?" Delphine looked away. "Delphine. What is it?"

"I am sorry, Brandon, I have... other matters to attend to. It's... personal."

"More important than finding the answers we've been looking for? More important than stopping the dragons?"

"You'll be fine. Find Brynjolf; find Esbern; protect him from the Thalmor. He will be able to answer your questions."

"And what about you?" Brandon's voice was flat and cold.

"If I'm not back in a month... Esbern will guide you." She finished firmly, and began packing: a small purse, her armor and sword, a few supplies. Her smooth efficiency still startled Brandon; the firm set of her features and calm swiftness impressed upon him the many years of experience she possessed.

A few minutes was all it took and they were out the door, into the cool night. The gentle rumble of the river was punctuated by the song of a nightbird, and given harmony by the sound of the wind rolling through the trees.

"Good luck, Brandon. May fortune find you well."

Brandon nodded in acknowledgement, and watched as she mounted the horse she had retrieved from the inn's stables.

With a final look, Delphine spurred her horse down the road. Brandon watched her until she vanished into the darkness. The road ahead was unclear, and Brandon felt that with Delphine's departure, his only stay had been torn away by some unforeseen wind, leaving him adrift in a tumultuous sea.

The stars wheeled above him; tiny pinpricks of light, cold and uncaring, constant and lifeless; they would remain long after he was gone, Brandon knew, but he shouldered his own pack, loosened his sword in its sheath, and headed north along the road to Whiterun; and from there, to Riften and beyond.

**UH**


	2. Shadows of the Past: Chapter One

**Blade of the Emperor**

**Book I: Shadows of the Past**

**Chapter One**

* * *

North Point, Imperial Province of High Rock, Summer 4E201

Magnus had dawned that morning with a pale, clear light, bringing with him the promise of clear skies and easy winds to the sailors and boatmen who watched his appearance with the apprehension known only to those whose livelihood depends on the vagaries of the gods. And though no man may know the mind of a god, on this day, at least, the sailors were hopeful, and many a hasty prayer was offered that the day's early promise might mature into a fuller and more plentiful middle - and, perhaps, were it not too much to ask, a quiet end as well.

Alain took a deep breath, and the chill air burned its way down into his lungs, wakening him with the vibrant smell of morning and the sea. He had taken a room at one of the city's inns rather than take the long walk home and had risen before the dawn, as was his custom. The city around him was still largely asleep, but a few were now stirring in their stone houses; their lamps glinted through windows and between alleyways as the early risers began their daily business.

How alone we all are, he thought, as he watched a young woman open her door and begin to tend the garden bed which rested so decoratively on her home's front porch. She was not poor to be certain, he reflected, owning even a such modest home within the city; the woman was not beautiful, he decided, but she bore herself with such a composure, such a self-assuredness that he could not help but be captivated by her fine, high-boned, unlined features; her long blonde tresses were bound carelessly behind her head in a simple braid, a kind of elegant sprezzatura that gave her the air of an exceptional courtier, consumed with ability as an end, rather than the mere appearance of it.

She looked up and saw him staring; their eyes met and she looked hurriedly away. Alain smiled sadly to himself, remembering the joy of companionship, and then the pain of its denial; before him stood the temple of Kynareth, its high stone arches lined by the growing sunlight. Entering through the dark wooden doorway, he reached up and reflexively touched the amulet resting beneath his tunic.

By some trick or skill or art architectural or arcane, light flooded into the temple, giving the unfailing impression of having entered another world composed solely of luminance. The priestess, hooded and robed, looked up at his entrance; recognition warmed her gentle, pious greeting, and she crossed to meet him. Always she managed to make him feel self-conscious, in her fine robes, and he in a simple sailor's rough garb. It was unintentional, he knew, but she so succeeded in capturing the dignity and beauty of her goddess' presence that he always felt blessed to enter the temple she so diligently kept.

The shallow pool in the temple's center - no more than a handbreadth deep - was so still as to be like mirrorglass; the morning light gave it an ethereal clarity, and Alain watched as the priestess effortlessly crossed the small stone walkway which bisected the pool. She returned his bow as she reached him, and silently took his arm.

It was a large temple, and well-patronized, Alain knew, having seen many others across Tamriel, but this morning they were alone. They walked together, as they often did, moving up to the temple's higher reaches, where a glimpse of the sea might be caught on a clear morning such as this, and where the breeze could twist through one's hair, bringing hints of far-off lands and peoples unknown or once-forgotten. They would stand there, until the sun was past the horizon, talking of things they had seen, and people they had known long ago.

She had once been a mercenary, and had fought in every province of the Empire before finally taking a wound that had nearly killed her. Rosalyn had never revealed to him how she had come to be a priestess; he had never asked. She considered that fair, given that Alain had never revealed how a warrior such as he had come to be a simple fisherman.

Rosalyn watched him as he stared out the high temple windows; the stance and tone of his body, the hardness of his eyes and features, the scar on his cheek - even the way he wore his hair all told of years of hard experience for those with eyes to see; to others he would seem no more and no less than a mildly prosperous fisherman of High Rock.

Alain noticed her gaze at last, and turned to meet it. There was pain in his eyes, she realized, and for a moment she felt a wound in her heart that this moment between them was a source of suffering. Then she saw something else, a feeling, deep within; a moment grew between them, a sense of tension, of the precipice. Rosalyn felt, rather than saw him lean forward slightly, as if to bring some consummation about, but instead he closed his eyes and turned his head away.

She understood, at last, and reached out to take his hand in her own; her fingers slipped between his as he looked at her once more, and she squeezed his hand gently. They smiled quietly to one another as they stood, bathed in sunlight and the cool, calm winds of the sea.

* * *

Seagulls called and squabbled incessantly with each other above the harbor, arguing over scraps and the occasional roosting place. They were a part of the sea, Alain mused, as much as we are, he supposed. The masts and rigging of the harbor's ships formed a small forest on the ocean's outskirts. Though it was still early in the morning, the barkers had already taken up residence, selling this or that to new-come passengers or weary sailors, and finding their business well-prepared for their advances.

Alain smiled to himself at the weary cycle of things, and proceeded down the dock to where his own vessel - a simple one-man craft - awaited him.

Slipping out into the open ocean, Alain readied his nets, and soon after began to fish. It stayed clear throughout the day, and though it became briefly warm after the noonday sun, the weather was pleasant enough, fulfilling the promise it had given at the day's dawning. But despite the pleasantry the catch was not a good one, and Alain turned for shore with some disappointment.

His return was observed by several old hands as they reclined at an old inn just barely removed from the harbor itself. It survived more by simple inertia rather than anything else.

"I swear, brother," remarked one old salt to the other, "that man's got no damn sense. Tryna make a living off a one-man piece of shit like that."

The other nodded his agreement. "He's no great sailor, neither, I tell you, brother. Watch as he tries to bring 'er into harbor." And indeed, they watched intently, missing nothing. Certainly to the outside observer there could be nothing lacking in the little boat's performance, but to those whose entire lives had been spent in the accomplishment of such tasks, the recent sailor stood out without chance of concealment. "I'll bet he didn't make no great catch neither." The other nodded slowly.

"But he seems to make a living well enough."

"Chana! Another set of ale, if you please!" His great, booming voice, accustomed to shouting across a galley's deck, filled the small inn and spilled boisterously out of it, startling the young woman already approaching their usual table.

"Well I'm already here, ain't I?" Came the annoyed reply as she set down the two tankards of ale and departed with a wink.

One kept his weather eyes on the serving girl's departure, while the other returned his attention to the small fishing boat now mooring alongside the dock.

"Might you know who that is, then?" asked the man a table over, drawing a suspicious glance from both of the older men.

"Might do," replied the one. "What's it to you, friend?"

"Oh, nothing," came the half-laughed reply, "I'm just looking to hire out a boat and thought he might be the one for me. Do you know much about him?"

A shrug was his most expressive answer. "Not really. Been around, what, five years..." he looked to his brother for confirmation, who shook his head, "six?" he questioned, received a nod, and continued, "six years at least, but keeps to himself mostly. Has a house way out on The Point, outside the city walls, but spends time at the inn when he's fishing, or at the temple," a smirk, here, "if you're looking to catch him that might be the place to start."

The newcomer nodded thoughtfully, and tossed a septim onto their table in thanks, laughing internally at the foolishness of age. They watched him as he walked out of the tavern, shaking their heads in joined disgust at the impudence of youth.

The younger man paused on the street outside, unaware of the disapprobation directed towards him; the grimy cobblestones gritted beneath his boots, and the shouts and calls of sailors filled the afternoon air. It would be impossible, he decided, to intercept his target on the docks, but if he caught the man leaving the temple he would lead them right to his home. A sweep was the only other alternative, he supposed, but he knew that Lylim disliked such imprecise measures, especially for operations such as this. His feet had taken him along the road towards the temple of Kynareth and there, indeed, was his quarry, conversing quietly with a delicate Breton priestess of around his age.

* * *

He bid her farewell at the steps of the temple as the sun began its slow sinking towards the western horizon. Their eyes lingered upon each other, and he looked back twice before turning the corner leading to the main gate, and still she stood there watching after him. Alain felt a pride that he had not felt in a long time; the pride which comes from knowing one is valued, that one is loved.

It was a long walk to his home by the sea. He lived in a small village, tributary to the great city of North Point, but wealthy in its own way. Though the city was one of the cleanest he had ever seen, it was still occupied by a great press of humanity, and Alain had been too long subjected to such a life to willingly return to it now.

His village was a few hours' walk away, and he found the solitude afforded by its isolation was not unbearable - and often preferable to the raucous noise of urban life. Alain enjoyed the silence, the smell of the flowers still blooming beside the road, the still-heard roar of the breakers on the shore. A luna moth descended from the sky and fluttered along the road ahead of him, its shimmering blue wings glinted in the light of the moons. He stopped suddenly; half-buried instincts from another life warning him of unseen danger behind him. Alain turned and inspected the road behind him, looking for any sign of pursuit. A minute or more he stood there, motionless and watchful, but no danger revealed itself.

Up ahead Alain could see the lights of his village shining through windows and doorways as the final business of the day was carried out, and the people prepared for the night. It was warm, and Alain could feel the weariness of the day weighting down his limbs; it was a good feeling, a tangible reminder of the work he had done and of a day well spent.

Friendly faces greeted his return, and he smiled in response, feeling the jingle of gold in his purse. It had not been an exceptional catch, but he had sold enough to live on for a while, and it was not as if he needed the money to survive.

He turned off the road, taking a path down to the sea's edge. The sounds of even the village were cut off here, leaving him alone with the sea. Alain stripped off his boots and tunic, leaving only the amulet around his neck. The warm sea lapped against his ankles as he waded into it; the leap submerged him and cleansed him as the salty brine washed the dust of the road away.

Alain swam back and forth along the beach, letting the soreness of his muscles fade away in the warmth of the sea's embrace. When he was done, and the sun had touched its rim to the horizon's edge, Alain pulled himself slowly from the water and sat naked on the beach, watching as the sun's reflection lengthened across the ocean, reaching out across the water as if to touch him, like the great red finger of a god.

Once, long ago, he had shared moments like this; moments which changed a person in ways so small that they could not be identified. Such moments might still be shared, but could he open himself to that kind of change? Was he able any longer to do such a thing?

The sun had set fully by the time he returned to his home, a small stone house built many years ago, but still comfortable and roomy for Alain. With the door closed and latched behind him, Alain stripped off his clothing and sank gratefully into his bed.

* * *

Brandon coughed as the wind shifted, blowing smoke back towards him from the smouldering city and ruffling the white horse-hair crest of his helmet. The city's high walls still stood as strong as they had only days before, when Ulfric's banner had waved proudly above them.

Now that banner was gone, replaced by the red and black symbol of the Empire. Before its fall, Riften had been the last Stormcloak stronghold outside of Windhelm, and now all eyes turned north, to where the last rebel army lay in wait. Two legions, under Fasendil and Hrollod, would move north from the Rift; Telendas and Tituleius would drive South from Winterhold, while Rikke, Cipius, Admand, Duilius and Skulnar moved east under the command of General Tullius to crush Ulfric once and for all.

But that was all in the future; for now there was a city to occupy and prisoners to disposition.

His men stood ranked behind him, their blue tunics distinguishing them from the red of the other imperial soldiers. They held themselves proudly, aloof from the other legionaries; they were a special unit, for each legion had only two antesignani centuries attached to it. They did not stand in the line of battle; they were light infantry, giving the legion reach and flexibility: eyes to watch its van and trail for signs of ambush. But they could fight, Brandon knew; how they could fight.

The city's gates lay open, and from it shuffled long slow lines of prisoners; Brandon and his men watched them dispassionately as they passed; a few stormcloaks tossed curses and looks of hatred, but his men ignored them.

Minutes before, one of his soldiers had tried to take advantage of a prisoner - had wanted some gold or plunder. But an old sergeant - who hadn't had the learning to pass for centurion - remembered the Great War, and had beaten the man bloody. "The Nords fought with us, boy," he had said, "they deserve our respect for that, at least." The young legionary had spat a gobbet of blood onto the ground and returned stiffly to the formation. "Sorry about that, sir," the sergeant had apologized, coming to attention in front of Brandon and saluting.

"Carry on, sergeant," Brandon had replied, returning the salute, "you were quite right to take action."

"Thank you, sir," said the sergeant, taking Brandon's nod as dismissal.

The prisoners would be taken to a holding area at the army's base camp; there they would be given a choice: duty in a labor camp for five years after the war's end, or entry into the legion and posting far from Skyrim. To Brandon it seemed an efficient and pragmatic measure.

"Well, Brandon," said Legate Rikke, appearing unexpectedly nearby, "that was a pretty stiff business." Her mounted guard circled watchfully around her as she spoke, their horses and uniforms immaculate, and their eyes ever-watchful.

"Yes ma'am, it was." She returned his salute silently.

"Close run, there, for awhile," she continued, and Brandon nodded silently. "Your men did very well indeed." Here she dismounted, and handed her horse's reins to a member of her guard. "I would have prefered," she paused, considering, her eyes never leaving Brandon's, "I would have prefered to give this before the legion, but with matters so pressing..." she waved a hand. "Bring forth your standard."

Brandon turned to issue the appropriate order, but his men had been listening, and the standard bearer was already approaching.

"Kneel," she commanded gently, and Brandon knelt, the standard lowering across his left shoulder. Rikke brought out a bronze medallion a handbreadth in diameter, and affixed it reverently to the standard's crosspiece. "Let all know," she spoke, and her voice carried to every member of Brandon's century, "that on this day I award you and your men the Imperial citation for gallantry, touched by the Emperor's own hand; bear it proudly henceforth." Then she took Brandon by the hand and raised him up, kissing him on each cheek. His men shouted their approbation, and beat their spearshafts upon the steel rims of their upraised shields.

A hand clapped down on Brandon's shoulder, and it all faded: the cheers, the smoke, the defeated prisoners; all that remained was the wall, still scorched from the fires of its taking. He was no longer First Centurion Brandon of Cyrodiil with one hundred men under his command; now he was merely... Brandon.

He turned to face the Riften guard who stood behind him. Dark eyes glinted from behind the helmet's eyeslits. "Are you wanting entrance to the city?"

"Yes."

The guard squared his shoulders and held out a hand. "You'll be paying the toll, then: ten septims."

"You're joking." The guard shook his head.

"Very well," Brandon sighed, and pulled ten gold coins out of his dwindling purse. "Is there an exit toll as well?" His tone was biting.

"Indeed not, sir," replied the guard, sounding mildly offended, and indicated to the gatehouse that it was all clear. The two other guards there relaxed, and returned their attention to their dice game.

"Oh, where might I find a bed for the night?"

The guard hesitated before answering. "If it's just a bed you're after, try the Bee and Barb."

Brandon inclined his head in polite thanks, wondering at the guard's strange reply, and entered the city he had seen only once before. She was not beautiful, and certainly not wealthy. Indeed, to Brandon's eye, she had the air of an ailing aunt, who survives on her past merits and her family's indulgence. The people who walked her streets seemed downtrodden and dismayed, uninterested in the warmth of the air or the color of the sky.

It took him a while to find the inn, and gathered him many an odd glance; Riften, it seemed, was not accustomed to strangers. Later, rather than sooner, Brandon found himself at the inn, just as evening was beginning to set. Squaring his shoulders, Brandon pushed his way through the door and found himself in a brightly-lit tavern with many patrons.

"Ah!" Exclaimed a Redguard man at his entrance, his dark eyes fixed fervently on Brandon, "another heathen come to partake of your villainous services?"

Immediately confused, Brandon looked behind him, ensuring that it was in fact he, Brandon, who was being addressed. No more sinful individual appeared behind him, leaving Brandon with the uncomfortable conclusion that he was about to be harangued.

"You must agree sir, do you not, that the return of the dragons is not mere coincidence." The priest's eyes shone fervently beneath his yellow hood. "I say that this is one of the signs: the signs that Lady Mara is displeased with your constant inebriation." Here he began addressing the inn as a whole. "Put down your flagons filled with your vile liquids and embrace the teachings of the handmaiden of Kyne!"

An Argonian woman interrupted just as the priest drew in a breath with which to continue his sermon.

"No, no... Maramal, we talked about this." She looked desperately around, her eyes finally fixing on another Argonian who was approaching from the far side of the room. "Talen..." Her voice trailed off pleadingly.

The priest rounded on her. "Keerava," his voice now soft and full of understanding, "certainly we can come to an understanding. These people must be aware of the chaos they have sown."

The second Argonian broke in on the conversation. "But what of these rumors of a Dragonborn?" he asked, "Certainly that must be a sign as well, must it not?" Keerava nodded gently in agreement, looking gratefully at the newcomer.

"Perhaps, perhaps," murmured Maramal, but the priest was not to be so lightly dissuaded from his message. "But wherever this Dragonborn, may be, if he even exists," Brandon was now on the forgotten fringes of the conversation, "he can never triumph without the aid of the Goddess - aid which you sybarites deny him by your insistence upon this vile drink!"

The other Argonian spoke harshly now; he was angry, and his voice carried across the entire tavern. "Enough Maramal. We've all heard of the dragons and their return. There's no need to use them as an excuse to harass our customers."

"Very well, Talen-Jei," sniffed the priest, "I will remove myself from this den of iniquity."

"Please Maramal," Keerava said softly, "we're not kicking you out, but... please, keep the sermons at the temple and let us all sin in peace."

Maramal brushed wordlessly past Brandon and let the door slam behind him. Talen-Jei looked apologetic, but waited for Keerava to recover herself.

"I'm sorry about that stranger," she said, passing a hand across her eyes before looking up at him, "but that's been building for a while. Ever since the dragons appeared he's been harping at all of us...

"Anyway. What can we do for you? A hot meal, perhaps?"

Brandon shook his head, "No, thank you, but perhaps some brandy if you have it?"

Talen-Jei nodded and led Brandon towards the bar, where he poured a small glass of Colovian Brandy and slid it across the well-polished wood.

Brandon sipped the brandy contemplatively as he took a seat at the bar, feeling the questioning eyes of the tavern's patrons moving interrogatively across his back. He shifted uncomfortably, feeling their gaze across his weather-stained cloak and boots, the black-sheathed longsword that was slung across his back, his short-cut shock of dark brown hair. A close, closeted group of people.

Forcing a smile on his face, Brandon returned his attention to the bartender, who was busy tidying up behind the bar. Brandon cleared his throat; Talen-Jei looked up, a little startled.

"Yes?"

"There is something else, actually. I'm looking for someone." Talen-Jei's eyes narrowed slightly, and Brandon sensed the other Argonian, Keerava, approaching. Brandon sipped the brandy again before continuing. "Yes. A friend told me to find a man named Brynjolf, but as you can tell I'm new and..."

Talen-Jei released his breath in a hiss that took Brandon off guard.

"You won't find him here, that's for certain. So why don't you show yourself out. No associate of Brynjolf's is welcome here."

"But..." was the only thing Brandon managed before a strong hand slipped its way around his bicep. He twisted, reaching his right hand around to grasp the hilt of his dagger. A woman confronted him, a Nord, dark-haired and dangerous.

"Easy, friend," she said, eyeing the dagger hidden beneath his cloak, "wouldn't want to start something you couldn't finish."

"That right?" Brandon asked archly, but she only nodded. Brandon kept his fingers wrapped tightly around the dagger.

"Why are you looking for Brynjolf?" she asked, making no protest as Brandon wrested his arm from her grip.

"That sounds like business between me and him. What's it to you?" The woman opened her mouth to reply, but Keerava cut in.

"I want both of you out of here. I run a peaceful establishment, or Mara knows, I try. So please, if you have a grievance, take it elsewhere."

The woman stared viciously at the irate Argonian, but finally relented. "Fine," she said at last, "come along, stranger." Brandon, uncertain of what to do, shrugged, glanced apologetically at Keerava and Talen-Jei, tossed a few septims on the bar, and followed the woman out into the night.

Riften's streets were dark and lifeless; the only light came from the moons overhead.

"What's your name, stranger?"

For a moment, Brandon considered lying. He had no idea who this woman was, who she represented, or what she might do. But he was not a deceitful man, and, for all his experience, he liked to think the best of people.

"Brandon," he answered, and the woman grunted skeptically; perhaps she had the same doubts.

"And what do you want with Brynjolf?" she asked again.

"I said already that my business is my own. If you know where Brynjolf is, why don't you take me to him and we'll get this settled right now?"

The woman sighed wearily. "You don't seem to understand: you don't see Brynjolf until I say so, got it?" She sighed again. "So why don't you tell me what you want and maybe I'll take you to Brynjolf."

"I'm looking for a man."

The woman snorted. "Sounds to me like you're looking for two." Brandon ignored her sally and continued.

"My friend told me that he was here in Riften, hiding, and that Brynjolf would know where to find him."

"Is that so?"

"It is."

"And the reward for this service would be..." she trailed off.

Brandon hesitated, again uncertain of the extent to which he could trust, well, anyone. He took a risk and pulled a heavy purse from within his cloak.

The woman was silent for several seconds as she appraised its contents. "Ah." she said, breaking the silence at last. "Then perhaps I might be able to lead you to Brynjolf after all."

"What's your name?" Brandon asked, and she froze, half-turned from him.

"Sapphire," she answered, and led him on.

* * *

It seemed wrong, somehow, that even in the dark, dust rose from their boots and their horses' hooves to cloud around them, choking and blinding them. They cursed the horsemen ahead of them, and the moons above them for giving light to their torment.

Asliel twisted around, shifting his spear to his left shoulder in an attempt to reach the loosened leather strap that bound his breastplate against him. He grunted in frustration as his gauntleted fingers fumbled clumsily with the strap, and he cursed silently the blacksmith who had so clearly bungled the forging of his armor.

The corporal ahead of him looked back and glared, but Asliel raised a placating hand, and the corporal turned away.

A hand tapped him on the shoulder, and then reached down to grasp the strap and pull it tight. Asliel looked gratefully back at Kael, who grinned in response; his white teeth shone in the moonlight.

"What in oblivion are we doing out here anyway?" whispered Asliel, moving his spear back to the more comfortable right shoulder.

"Don't know for sure, brother," replied his comrade with a despairing shrug, "but Maenan says we're after some Blade or something - fought in the First War, supposedly."

Asliel dismissed that idea with an abrasive, "Pff," which brought another threatening look from the corporal. "What, the twenty-five of us going after one old man? Don't be ridiculous brother."

Kael shrugged, still convinced of the veracity of his rumors. "Maybe," he said, "but those Blades were something else, or so I've heard; there's a couple in the company as fought in the War - might be you should ask them; might be you'll hear more than you'd want."

The pair fell silent as the column continued along the dirt road, and after a few hours of marching they halted, the lights of North Point fading in the distance.

Kael and Asliel sank down against a berm at the side of the road, and shared a drink of water from Asliel's canteen as they rested. Their helmets off, they could hear much better, and the night sounds carried far across the landscape; they were still a ways from the sea, but the crash of the waves on the shore could be heard even here. "Almost reminds me of home," murmured Asliel, and Kael nodded in silent agreement.

"Do you remember how warm it used to be on nights like this?" He asked. "My father and I used to go fishing together at our village just outside Skywatch. We used to catch-"

Kael was cut short by Asliel's raised hand, and a quiet "shhh, something's happening." Up ahead a shadow detached itself from the roadside and approached their leader, Lylim, a Thalmor Justiciar sent all the way from Daggerfall to command their mission.

"Is it done?" Asked Lylim of the shadow.

"It is, my lord," replied the shadow; a Man by his accent - Breton, maybe - and Asliel sneered.

"Lead us to him, and the gold-" here Lylim held out a large purse of coin, "-will be yours."

The shadow paused, seemingly calculating the wealth contained in that leather bag, and then bowed his head. "Yes, lord."

Asliel looked across at Kael, who merely grinned at being proven right. Asliel shook his head in disgust. A few minutes of blissful rest passed, and Asliel began nodding off, his head sinking down and then jerking up as he caught himself. His efforts at staying conscious became less earnest with each passing minute, until finally...

"Get up, you useless sacks. We're moving." The corporal kicked Asliel's foot as he passed, proceeding to wake the rest of the file with similarly silent encouragement.

Asliel sighed and buckled on his helmet before turning to help Kael do the same. The horsemen remounted, the archers reformed, and the watchmen pulled back in from their posts. The dust which had just settled back to the ground was roused up again by the iron horseshoes, lifting up to choke the soldiers in the rear as they marched along towards their final goal.

Another few hours of marching saw them to it; the shadow always ahead with Lylim, guiding him on which fork to take, and how much further was the man's village. Until finally there it was, nestled between the sea and the slope of a small ridge, and there, further back and separated from the main village, was a solitary house: their target.

The captain gave the signal, and they silently moved off the road, breaking into little sub-units to surround and contain their enemy's home. Asliel and Kael followed the corporal's lead, trailing behind Lylim and creeping silently towards the dark and shuttered house. The archers took position on the ridge overlooking them, and the others spread out, circling around to cut off all possibility of escape.

Three split off to cover the house's front door while they, Raven, the captain, and Lylim crept to the back.

"Ready?" whispered the captain. They nodded, and Lylim made an impatient gesture; magicka glittered in blue sparks around his fingertips, and the hair on Asliel's neck stood on end to see him demonstrate even this evidence of his arcane power.

The captain gave the signal and Raven kicked the door in, his bulky armored form following soon after. Asliel and Kael burst in after him as Lylim sent a spark of magelight in to light their way. From the far side of the house they heard the other team enter, the crash of the front doorway carried far, and dogs began barking in the village, bringing with them a few shouts and curses.

Raven fell heavily to the floor, the magelight reflecting darkly in the spray of blood that issued from his lacerated neck. The dark, curved sword withdrew from their comrade's neck with but a whisper, and settled back into a fighting stance.

The target had been alerted, somehow, and Raven had paid the price. There the Breton stood, shirtless, his long brown hair in disarray, but he was awake and alive.

Asliel brought up his spear and joined shields with Kael, each covering the other as they advanced cautiously toward their enemy. He gave a shout, and beat aside Asliel's spear and spun around, trying to get on their flank, but then there was the captain, bringing up his own shield to block the stroke. The Akaviri sword skittered off the elven metal, sending sparks flying through the air as the captain riposted, his sword darting forward to seek their enemy's flesh.

But he was too quick: the Breton jumped back, his hair flying about his face, and parried the blow, sending it far wide, and off-balancing the captain. Like a snake he moved in, his katana hissing through the air, but Asliel moved up and stabbed out with his long-bladed spear. The blow almost connected, forcing a clumsy parry from the Breton, who retreated once more, further and further into the room; he was running out of space, and Asliel and Kael closed in like hounds harrying a boar.

Now Lylim was through the door, and their compatriots could be heard in the room beyond. A bolt of lightning spat from the justiciar's hands to hiss over their enemy's shoulder, leaving the air tasting of ozone. The captain recovered and pressed the skill of their enemy with a renewed attack, sending blow after blow ringing off the Breton's defences.

Another forceful parry and the captain's sword flew singing across the room; another stroke and his armor parted at the waist, sending a flood of gore splashing down onto the wooden panels. Kael gave a shout and thrust forward with his spear, but the Breton flowed to the side and grabbed the spearshaft with one hand and tugged. Kael's spear flew from his grasp as the door behind the Breton crashed inwards and the other team moved in behind him.

Sweeping the spear in his left hand, the Breton kept Asliel and Kael at bay as he slit the throat of the first entrant with his sword. Reversing his grip, he swung to bring the long blade of the spear stabbing down below the second elf's shield, skewering his foot to the floorboards. The elf screamed, and the other behind him, already in motion, ran headlong into his compatriot, his momentum sending them both tumbling to the bloody floor.

Kael drew his sword and they advanced again. Lylim threw another bolt of lightning that caught the Breton in his chest and flung him bodily against the wall. Somehow he kept hold of his sword, and was able to parry Kael's stroke and Asliel's thrust while he attempted to regain his feet. But now the last member of the second team was up and had reclaimed his own weapon. On one knee, still reeling from the blast of magickal energy, the Breton threw himself bodily against Kael, throwing his full weight against the gilded, upraised shield. Taken off-guard, Kael fell backwards, the Breton on top of him, and then the sword plunged down, pierced through Kael's armored chest and withdrew, letting the Breton circle around once more.

Asliel gave a shout as he saw his friend fall, and rushed the Breton, slamming his own shield into the unarmored body of his foe. He was not thinking, indeed his mind was blank; he felt only rage and sorrow for the loss of his friend - and the newfound desire for revenge. The Breton staggered and fell awkwardly. Something crunched sickly underneath him; the blood-slicked Akaviri sword slid from nerveless fingers. Asliel stood triumphant over him, the razor-sharp point of his spear hovering an inch from the Breton's throat. His arm started forward, longing to take the life of his enemy.

"Hold." And Asliel froze, his arm trembling.

The justiciar moved forward and pushed Asliel out of the way. The Breton was lying on his side, cherishing his sword arm. Lylim nudged the katana out of reach with his foot and ordered the other soldier to bring in the rest of the company. Asliel remained with his spear lowered, ready to kill the Breton should he show any further sign of resistance.

Lylim smiled, and Asliel, blood-mad though he was, shuddered at the horrid sight of that awful expression.

"May I have the honor of knowing your name?"

The Breton grimaced and spat forcefully at the black-robed justiciar. "Piss on you."

Lylim fastidiously wiped the spittle from his robes and smiled again. "I highly doubt that," he replied archly. "Now, if you please," he placed his foot atop the Breton's broken sword-arm. "What. is. your. name?" When his question was finished he put his weight down, and Asliel could hear the grinding of bone. The Breton screamed.

"Alain. I am Alain of North Point." He screamed again. The balance of the company was inside the house, now, tearing through the rooms.

"I doubt that even more. I warn you, I shall not ask again: what is your name?" Lylim pressed down with his foot again, and the Breton writhed in agony, spreading blood in great sweeps across the floor.

"Eduard," he gasped, "Eduard of Farrun."

Lylim smiled gently and lifted his foot. "So we have found you at last, my friend. It is so good to finally meet the Sword-Brother of Titus Mede."

The Breton was incapacitated by pain, and he trembled uncontrollably as two Thalmor soldiers slowly picked him up from the floor.

"Goddess forgive me," he whispered as they dragged him out of the house.

"She may indeed, my friend," replied Lylim, "she may indeed."

"Let us find out together, shall we?" he added, and followed him out of the house.

* * *

It had not taken Brandon long to understand why it was called "The Ratway:" the dank, torch-lit tunnels that wound their way beneath Riften were well-suited to their namesake. Sapphire had led him to the center of the city, where a canal ran sluggishly through a channel sunk deep into the earth. The cobblestone streets halted at its edge, plunging down some twenty or thirty feet to form a second level of the city; shops and vendors lined the riverfront, and as Brandon and Sapphire descended the decrepit wooden stairway leading to this antediluvean realm, Brandon felt even the moonlight dim as the narrow, high walls cut them off from the city at large.

The stink of the canal, seemingly contained by the high stone walls, was unavoidable now. Sapphire seemed undisturbed by it, but Brandon wrinkled his nose reflexively and tried, unsuccessfully, to breath through his mouth.

They were separated from the water only by the services of a rotten old boardwalk that creaked menacingly with every step. At last, Sapphire reached the doorway she was looking for, and unslung a lantern from its post above the gate. Brandon stood looking nervously around as Sapphire struck flint against her dagger in an attempt to light the lantern.

A warm, orange glow finally emerged, gently lighting their surroundings and illuminating the rusted iron gate before which they stood. Sapphire gave Brandon a last appraising glance, now in the lantern light, before turning to unlock the gate with a key she had mysteriously produced from within her tunic.

Brandon watched, slightly astonished, as the gate swung smoothly open - he had rather expected it to be rusted shut. Sapphire passed through without comment, however, and motioned for Brandon to follow.

The smell mercifully faded as they advanced deeper into the tunnels, and Brandon was able to breathe freely once more.

By the time they reached their goal, Brandon had completely lost his sense of direction. The darkness, combined with the twists and turns of the Ratway had him entirely disoriented.

Sapphire rapped her gloved fingers against a rotten old door, rousing an angry mutter as a wooden shutter within the door was pulled back. An angry face peered out and surveyed Sapphire and Brandon, and then, without a word, the shutter was closed, and the door hauled open.

Sapphire led Brandon through and past the doorman into a large open space, roofed skillfully with stone. The room's only light came from a few guttering torches that lined the walls, though Brandon thought he saw what might have been a skylight in the ceiling's center.

Only a few shadowy figures occupied the room, several seated, others standing. Sapphire half turned and smiled at Brandon. "Welcome to the Ragged Flagon."

Already their presence had been noticed, and questioning eyes followed them as Sapphire and Brandon moved around the stone walkway towards the lighted area where, against all Brandon's expectations, there stood a small bar.

"Take a seat," ordered Sapphire, indicating a chair, "I'll just be a moment." Brandon sat impatiently, and drummed his fingers on the table. The minutes dragged by, and Brandon shifted in his seat, anxious to be done and gone.

"So," began a deep, strong voice, "I understand that you have been looking for me."

Brandon stood and turned to face the direction the voice had come from. "If you are Brynjolf," he replied, "then yes, I have."

"I am, Brynjolf; and you are Brandon, I understand. Please, have a seat and we'll discuss what brings you to my establishment." The other man crossed in front of Brandon and took the seat across from him, leaving Brandon to follow suit. When they both were seated, he began.

"Now. What may I do for you?" His eyes struck into Brandon's, and the two men watched each other closely for a moment.

"I'm told you might help me find someone that I'm looking for."

Brynjolf smiled, arched an eyebrow and looked casually around the expansive room. "And who told you that?"

"Delphine." The smile disappeared, and Brynjolf looked more seriously at Brandon. "She said that if anyone knew where Esbern was hiding in Riften, you would."

"It has been a long time since I saw Delphine last." He paused, measuring his next words. "How is she?"

"Running the inn at Riverwood, though she seems to prefer adventuring."

"A tall woman, with brown eyes." Brandon paused.

"Blue," he corrected, and Brynjolf nodded.

"And Orgnar?"

"Still doing as little as possible, it seems." Brynjolf smiled at that, and nodded.

"I believe we might be able to help you." Brandon inclined his head in wordless thanks. "Esbern has been hiding in the Warrens for some time, paying us good coin to keep him hidden - but I know Delphine from the old days, so..." Brynjolf trailed off, leaving the rest unsaid. "We check in on him, every now and then, though he doesn't know it - would probably be angry if he did; Sapphire will see you on the right path." He stood, and Brandon took that as the cue for their interview's end.

"Be careful," Brynjolf warned as Sapphire led Brandon through another door, "others have been asking around Riften, looking for an old man hiding in the Warrens - I suspect you may run into them before the end; there are many ways into the Warrens." Brandon nodded his thanks, and followed Sapphire into the depths below even the Ratway.

Here in the Warrens Sapphire seemed less in her element, and their progress was slower than it had been in the upper levels of the Ratway. The long, winding passageways were very, very old, and it was clear that absolutely no kind of maintenance had been done on them in a very long time. Brandon began to wonder how exactly the city above them did not simply crash down through the tunnel's roof.

Sapphire's lantern was their only steady source of light, though they occasionally stumbled on crude torches, or smouldering fires lit by one or another of the Warrens' wretched inhabitants. Brandon had taken the first torch they had come across, and carried it held aloft, hoping to add even a little illumination to that of their solitary lantern.

Gradually Brandon came to suspect that there must have been some secret system of marking her path, for Brandon was now hopelessly lost, and was uncomfortably aware of just how much he was depending on Sapphire - should she slip off, he would be trapped down here, and the thought of that prospect encouraged him to follow a little closer on her heels.

They turned another corner and Sapphire stopped so suddenly that Brandon almost ran into her. She turned, finger to her lips, and motioned him back into the tunnel they had just exited. As he complied, Brandon saw the flicker of light moving towards them, reflected on the tunnel walls. He doused his torch as Sapphire put out her lantern, and they crouched there in the darkness, huddled against the dank stone walls.

A strident voice carried forcefully down the tunnel. "I'm telling you, I saw a light coming from down here."

"Well it's not there anymore," griped a second voice, "if it ever was. You probably scared it off with your great big-"

"I'm serious. We're not alone down here." The first voice was angry now.

"No, we've been down here too long and you're seeing things."

A sword rattled in its sheath, and Brandon's hand shot to grasp the hilt of his own sword, but Sapphire was faster, and her hand closed around his wrist to keep the weapon sheathed.

"Come on," continued the second voice, "let's go. We've still got an old man to find."

Their footsteps gradually receded, and their lights with them, until Brandon and Sapphire were left alone once more in the dark.

"This way," whispered Sapphire as she re-lit her lantern, "we're almost there." Brandon whispered his thanks and followed after her.

They moved down a long, straight hallway, evidence perhaps of a more prosperous period of the Warren's history - though Brandon could hardly believe such a thing was possible. At the end the hallway opened up into what was almost a courtyard, complete with arched balconies.

"Over here."

Sapphire was standing next to a large, well-built wooden door, banded with steel and possessing a kind of trap in the upper middle, apparently to allow the occupant to examine any potential visitors. Brandon looked questioningly at Sapphire and she nodded in affirmation. "This is it," she said softly, and turned around to survey the neighborhood. From somewhere below a madwoman muttered to herself.

Brandon stepped forward to the door and rapped thrice against it with his gloved hands. There was a pause, and then the metal trap slid aside, revealing an old man's wizened features and sharp, piercing eyes.

"Go away!" shouted the man, and slammed the trap shut.

Sapphire rolled her eyes in exasperation when Brandon looked at her, but offered no assistance. He knocked again and said "Esbern? Open the door, I'm a friend."

Another pause, and the trap opened again. "What?!" asked the old man, "No, that's not me. I'm not Esbern. I don't know what you're talking about."

"It's okay. Delphine sent me."

"Delphine?" questioned the old man, surprise coloring his voice, "How do you..." he paused, and his voice changed to anger. "So you've finally found her and she led you to me. And here I am, caught like a rat in a trap."

"She said to 'remember the 30th of Frostfall.'"

There was a long pause as the old man studied Brandon's features, deciding, Brandon thought, whether to trust him, or not.

"Ah, indeed? Indeed, I do remember." He said at last; the old man was calmer now. "So Delphine really is alive then? You'd better come in and tell me how you found me and..." he paused, "what you want."

The metal trap slid shut. "This'll just take a moment..." Brandon arched an eyebrow at Sapphire, but she just shook her head. He was still wondering what the old man was talking about when he began hearing the unmistakable sound of locks being opened.

"This one always sticks..." muttered the old man, and gave a grunt, apparently succeeding in undoing whatever mechanism had frozen up. "There we are," he said, "only a couple more."

At long last the door swung open, revealing a large well-lit room - the last thing Brandon had expected.

"Come in, come in," he said, giving Brandon an appraising look before stepping aside to allow him entrance, "make yourself at home."

Sapphire followed Brandon through the door, and nodded politely to the old man, who returned her greeting.

As the heavy door closed fast behind them, the old man sighed with relief. "That's better. Now we can talk.

"So Delphine keeps up the fight, after all these years. I thought she'd have realized it's hopeless by now. I tried to tell her years ago, but..." He let the sentence hang; silence settled over the three, and Sapphire moved to the room's far side.

"I'm sorry," he said finally, "we haven't introduced ourselves properly. Living down here dulls one's sense of hospitality." Of that Brandon had no doubt. "I am Esbern."

"Brandon - and that is Sapphire."

Another pause.

"What is 'hopeless,' Esbern? The Thalmor?" At this the old man burst into energetic speech, his voice strong and vibrant.

"No, no, no. Haven't you figured it out yet? What more needs to happen before you all wake up and see what's going on?

"Alduin has returned, just like the prophecy said."

Brandon glanced at Sapphire, but she was meticulously cleaning her fingernails with the point of her dagger. "Alduin?" he echoed at last.

"Yes," Esbern replied eagerly, "the dragon from the dawn of time, who devours the souls of the dead. No one can escape his hunger, here or in the afterlife! Alduin will devour all things and the world will end. Nothing can stop him."

Behind Esbern Sapphire stood abruptly and walked carefully back towards the door. Esbern took no notice of her and continued. "I tried to tell them," he said, and turned away from Brandon, shaking his head, "They wouldn't listen. Fools. And it's all come true... all I could do was watch our doom approach..."

"Wait a minute," Brandon interrupted, not wanting to let the old man become distracted by memory, "you're talking about the literal end of the world?" He emphasized the last words to convey his disbelief, but Esbern was unfazed.

"Oh, yes," he replied, matter-of-factly, as if he were discussing nothing more serious than yesterday's weather, "it's all been foretold. The end has begun. Alduin has returned."

"The dragon who is raising all the others, his name is Alduin?"

"Yes! Yes!" Esbern returned, rounding once more on Brandon. "You see, you know but you refuse to understand. It seems that the gods have grown tired of us. They've left us to our fate, as the plaything of Alduin the World-Eater." He sighed, at last seeming to come to grips with the bleak future he had described. "Only a dragonborn can stop him. But no dragonborn has been known for centuries."

Brandon hesitated, and heard Delphine's words echo in his mind. "The world has no use for reluctant heroes." She had said. "You either are dragonborn, or you aren't." He took a breath, and then the plunge.

"Esbern. I am dragonborn." It was the first time he had said the words aloud.

The old man's eyes widened in shock. "What? You're... no, can it really be true? Dragonborn? Then... perhaps there is hope. The gods have not abandoned us! We must... we must..."

Sapphire held up a hand, beckoning for Brandon's attention.

"We must go, quickly now," finished Esbern. "Take me to Delphine. We have much to discuss."

Brandon hesitated, not wanting to give the man false hope, but reluctant to begin a new conversation; Sapphire was growing insistent. "I don't know where she is, Esbern - that is, not anymore."

As quickly as it had started, Esbern's packing stopped as he turned to frown at Brandon. "What do you mean?"

Without an answer, Brandon shrugged. "She sent me here to find you and left. Didn't even say where she was going."

"Yes. Things would have gone more smoothly if she had come herself. Why didn't she?"

"Like I said, she had other business to deal with; what it was she wouldn't say. Perhaps it had something to do with the Thalmor."

Esbern dismissed the matter with a shake of his head and returned to his packing. "Perhaps. She always was an emotional creature." The silence that followed gave Brandon the chance to see what Sapphire was worried about.

"The madwoman's shut up. There's someone else down here with us. Close."

"You're sure?"

Her nod and the certainty in her eyes was all the answer he needed. She gripped the handle of her dagger and cleared it from its sheath before moving to stand ready at one side of the door.

"Esbern," Brandon whispered, "we have to go. Now."

From across the room, Esbern was still packing. "Quickly, I said, but give me... just a moment... I must gather a few things.

"I'll need this... no, no, useless trash... where'd I put my annotated annuad?" He was searching through a pile of books, discarding volumes to the floor in his haste.

"Esbern!"

"One moment, I know, time is of the essence, but mustn't leave secrets for the Thalmor... there's one more I must bring..." He opened a cabinet, dug around for a few seconds, and retrieved his last item. "Well, I guess that's good enough... let's be off..."

It was as Brandon turned away from him and faced the room's sole exit that the door, bound and warded though it was, burst inward in a shower of splinters.

Esbern threw up a hand and a shimmering field sprung up in front of them - a ward. Splinters, rivets, and shards of hot, twisted metal spattered and hissed off the magickal field; a sliver of steel as broad as Brandon's hand whizzed by and embedded itself in a cabinet.

The Thalmor moved in almost as quickly, the first soldier in before the dust and debris had even begun to settle. Brandon unsheathed his sword and moved out from behind Esbern's ward to engage the enemy. The elf's axe cut sideways across Brandon's chest, and he retreated back just enough to avoid the blow.

A fireball struck the elf square on his chest with enough force to stagger him backwards and scorch the gilded breastplate. Brandon stepped forward and cut low to sweep the legs out from under his opponent, sending him tumbling to the ground. There was fear in the elf's eyes as Brandon brought his sword down through the elf's chest.

Brandon turned back to the door. A second Thalmor was moving in, but Sapphire spun up behind him from the side of the door and slit his neck in a single smooth motion that sent a fountain of blood up from the lacerated veins. But now her back was turned to the door, and two more golden Thalmor soldiers were moving in.

Giving a shout, Brandon rushed forward and pushed Sapphire out of the way with one hand while bringing up his sword in a weak parry with the other. Another firebolt from Esbern struck one of the Thalmor in the face, and the room filled with the smell of charred flesh. The other stabbed forward with his sword and caught Brandon in the side. It was little more than superficial, but it stung, and Brandon beat the blade away and retreated to give himself time to recover. He clapped his free hand over his wounded side and brought his blade up into position.

Sapphire circled silently from the Thalmor's right as Esbern watched calmly from the left, trying to get a clear shot with his spells.

No other Thalmor entered, and Brandon attacked by feinting left; but the elf was canny and easily parried the weak blow, sending a stinging riposte hissing up towards Brandon's chest that he only just avoided.

Sapphire moved in from the side, slicing her dagger across the elf's elbow, trying for the weak point in his armor. But the scaled joint held, and her dagger's edge skittered across the elven metal. She ducked a return blow and rolled out of reach.

Brandon moved into the opening and thrust forward, piercing the weaker armor at the abdomen and then bringing his sword in a hissing arc up and around to slice into the elf's neck. Their last opponent crashed to the ground with a look of surprise on his face, and the three of them stood breathing hard, each watching the door and expecting more Thalmor soldiers to burst in at any second.

But none came, and as their breathing slowed Brandon slowly approached the door and peeked out: nothing. The madwoman was still silent, but there was no sign of other enemies.

They crept out into the Warrens, expecting the heavy tread of Thalmor soldiers at every turn, but Sapphire guided them well, and eventually they found themselves safe returned to the Ragged Flagon.

Brynjolf was still there, and greeted them with a shallow nod and acknowledged the older man among them with a simple, "Esbern."

"Brynjolf." returned the elderly Blade, "it seems the time has come for me to release you from my services. You have kept your part of the bargain it seems, and I am more than grateful."

Brynjolf chuckled. "You paid well, Esbern, and I am merely a businessman."

"Quite so," agreed Esbern, smiling slightly. "Farewell." Then he turned to face Sapphire, "And to you my dear. Your help was most appreciated." Brandon murmured in agreement, and the two made their departure, emerging silently from Riften's waterway into a pale dawn. They passed, cloaked and hooded through the main gate, rousing a sleepy carriage driver to take them to Whiterun.

* * *

A single, salty drop fell unnoticed into the temple's pool; tiny ripples distorted the flawless surface, sending sunstarts glinting from their peaks and troughs.

"You are sure?"

"Yes, priestess," said the man, his hat held before him in both hands. "They came in the night, and when the lord and his men rode out to meet them..." He looked helplessly at her. "There was nothing they could do... the Thalmor..." Another pleading, helpless look.

"Why me?" she questioned, "did he have no one..." she hesitated, "no one else?"

The man shook his head. "No one, priestess. He kept to himself mostly, but he was known to have an... attachment in the city - other than the fishing, of course." He grimaced. "The lord thought that, well, that you should be told."

Another tear ran unnoticed down Rosalyn's cheek as she nodded her thanks. "That was very kind of him - very kind indeed. Please give him my blessing on your return."

"I will priestess." And with one final pitying look the man departed, leaving her alone in the light and air of her temple.

She sank down, leaning her back against the temple's wall and cradled her head in her hands, sobbing silently. Rosalyn stayed there for a long while, letting her sorrow run its course, and as the sun settled into its afternoon skies, she raised herself up and walked up to the high balcony, where she and Alain had stood together so often. A warm wind blew in from the sea, and brought with it a solid unbreaking feel of his presence: the warmth of his hand in hers, the feel of him next to her, even the smell of him - salty from days spent on the sea.

The zephyr rustled her robes and she pushed back the hood from her head, letting her long dark hair stream back as it was released from its confines.

No, she decided: he was not dead. She would not allow him to rot away under the vicious care of the Thalmor.

She replaced her hood and descended into the lower part of the temple, where the priests and priestesses made their home. She knocked on the ornately carved door of the high priestess' quarters and was received with a gentle command to enter.

"Rosalyn," greeted the high priestess, seated on a small couch. "The man from Alain's village came to see me first; I should have come to you myself," she said apologetically, "I am sorry I did not."

There was a pause, and the two women watched each other, unsure of what next to say.

"Is there anything I may do, Rosalyn? I know you were close, in your way."

Rosalyn's eyes lit up. "Yes, priestess, there is one thing: release me from my duties here - only for a month, perhaps two."

"For what purpose?"

"I do not believe Alain is dead. I believe he still lives - and I wish to find him."

"Rosalyn, we do not ask questions of those who join our order, so I do not know what your experience was before you came to us. But from what I was told, there is little chance that Alain survived the Thalmor." Her eyes were sorrowful, and Rosalyn looked away, not wanting to bear the pity of the other woman.

"Give me leave, priestess," Rosalyn's eyes were hard now, and flashed with decision, "for I will go anyway."

The high priestess bowed her head and studied her hands, so elegantly folded in her lap. "Very well. I grant you leave for as long as you should desire it." The two women stood, their eyes meeting in mutual understanding. "But remember that you will always have a home here with us."

Rosalyn bowed in thanks and turned hastily towards her own quarters.

In a forgotten corner of her room, beneath a pile of papers, treatises, and religious works, there lay a smooth wooden chest bound and latched with iron.

Unbinding her hair, Rosalyn lifted her robes up and over her head, revealing a slender shape - still strong and lean even after her years in the temple; a long, lethal-looking scar ran the length of her body from her waist up between her breasts.

Taking a key from the thin chain around her neck, she unlocked the chest and slowly opened it. Within lay her armor, and her sword, still sharp in its sheath. Feeling her memories come back to life, she slowly buckled on her armor and belted her sword around her waist.

She knew that would have to rely on supplies she would gather along the way, but she collected a loaf of bread and some cheese from the temple's stores. On the temple's threshold, Rosalyn looked around her, feeling suddenly afraid to leave the place which had been her home for so long - the place which had, in fact, saved her life.

But another part, buried for many long years, was eager to feel the open road beneath her feet.

As she stepped out onto the city streets for what felt like the first time, Rosalyn breathed deep of the salty sea air. A warm breeze sprang up, and she felt her purpose warm within her heart, and knew that the goddess was with her.

**UH**


	3. Shadows of the Past: Chapter Two

**Blade of the Emperor**

**Book I: Shadows of the Past**

**Chapter Two**

* * *

Kingdom of Daggerfall, Imperial Province of High Rock, 4E201

They had burned their dead on a high hill that overlooked a bay some miles south of North Point. Lylim had ignited the pyres, and the magickal flames had licked up the wooden sides to consume the bodies of their friends. Their armor and weapons had been removed, and they burnt in the simple woolen tunics they all wore beneath their gear. Gathered around the shells of their comrades, the firelight illuminating their chiseled high-boned features, they sang a long slow song of lament which reached out over the grassy hills and down to the quiet shores of the sea.

The imperial highway stretched across the landscape straight and true, cutting through hills and sweeping in graceful curves around those obstacles it could not surmount. Even in the depths of his melancholy, Asliel had to admit to some admiration for the beauty and achievement of such a monument. It was said, by those who had fought in the War, that an Imperial legion could move along such a road at the astounding pace of twenty miles a day.

Asliel didn't know the truth of such things, and his mind was too preoccupied to deeply consider it; he had drawn the short straw that morning, and to him had fallen the task of guarding their prisoner.

Stripped of everything but a filthy loincloth, the prisoner was haggard and covered in dirt. His broken arm had been splinted, and bound carelessly about his neck with a thin strip of cloth; his good arm was held by a long rope that was tied to the justiciar's saddle, and Lylim would reach around to give the rope a tug whenever the prisoner's pace flagged.

Despite himself, Asliel was impressed. For over a week the prisoner had walked along behind Lylim's horse without once falling. His feet were bloody from travel, but always he managed to put one foot in front of the other, his shattered humerus cradled against his lean, strong-looking body.

Long brown hair hung down around his face, hiding those bright, terrifyingly blue eyes, but every so often the now-matted strands would part, and Asliel could see the narrow, sharply-angled face, and the long thin scar which ran across his cheek.

The others said that this man had fought in the War, had killed many great elves - a few whispered that he might even have been present at the famous duel between Lord Naarifiren and the Emperor, but others had dismissed that rumor and told Asliel to pay no attention. In truth, Asliel didn't know what to believe, for if what they said was true the man must be at least fifty - though he looked barely past thirty, if Asliel was any judge of the ages of Men. But the prisoner looked tough enough, and Asliel had seen firsthand the danger he concealed.

"What's that from?" Asliel asked finally, meaning the scar, curiosity overcoming his bearing. A bright blue eye glinted at him, but the prisoner remained silent.

"Answer me," he yelled, but the man simply ignored him.

Suddenly furious, Asliel stuck his spear-shaft out between the man's legs and tripped him, sending him tumbling into the hard stone of the road and eliciting a cry of pain as the man jarred his broken arm.

A few of the other soldiers marching behind them laughed at the sight, and Asliel bent down as the man struggled hurriedly to his feet, desperate to avoid being dragged along behind the justiciar's horse.

"You'll be more talkative once you've spent a few days with the justiciar." But the man said nothing, and did not even look at Asliel.

They reached the city of Anticlere that evening and passed quickly through, the streets emptying rapidly at their approach. Asliel smirked to see the population flee before their advance.

Once they were through the city they turned off the main road and continued up a well-traveled dirt path towards their final destination: a walled stone compound that sheltered menacingly within the woods, revealing itself only reluctantly to any new-come visitor.

The guards at the gate opened quickly when the saw Lylim, and his tired company mustered for a final formation before they were released back to their barracks.

Watchful eyes noticed their depleted ranks, and hardened on the ragged man so obviously the target of their comrades' expedition. The compound's garrison was large; thirty Thalmor soldiers remained - those who had not left to capture the Breton standing wearily to one side of the courtyard.

Asliel was half-dozing as he stood ranked with the others; normally Kael was beside him, and he felt a hole within himself at the knowledge that he would no longer have such a dependable friend to count on.

"You." said Lylim, and Asliel started as the justiciar's gloved finger reached out almost to touch his nose.

"And you," he said, pointing to someone behind Asliel, "take the prisoner and follow me."

The others were released and moved swiftly back to their barracks for a hot meal and a few hours sleep. Asliel and the other unfortunate - whose name was Irinwe - moved to the prisoner and took reluctant custody of him.

Once Lylim was satisfied that the prisoner was bound securely, he led them to a building on the far side of the compound that was heavily fortified; barred windows and heavy doors bound with metal and surely warded by magic. Inside was a guard room, where they entered the prisoner's name and details in a thick book, and descended several flights of stairs, guided by one of the guards.

Asliel and Irinwe shared a look as they reached the bottom floor and entered a long stone hallway lined on one side with evenly-spaced solid iron-sheathed doors.

"This one." The guard stood at the third door and opened it.

As Asliel and Irinwe approached, the prisoner held firmly between them, they saw a dank, lightless stone cell.

They shackled the prisoner's good arm to the wall, high up, so that he was forced to stand, his feet shackled to the floor.

When they were done, Lylim ordered them out and closed the door behind him. Unsure of what to do, they waited nervously by the door until, five minutes later, the justiciar emerged smiling to himself.

They followed him back upstairs where they were dismissed promptly, the guards taking over their responsibility for the prisoner.

"Wouldn't want to be him," said Irinwe as they walked together back to the barracks.

"Scum deserves whatever he gets." Asliel growled viciously, remembering a mage-lit room and the dark arc of an akaviri sword striking deep into his best friend's chest.

"Right," she answered, and then they were in the barracks, with their friends about them once more, and they forgot the dark room and the awful fate reserved for the man who had evaded their nets for thirty years.

* * *

The road had rushed by beneath her horse's hooves, leaving Delphine with the unsettling feeling of being stationary and the world itself moving beneath her. She had hardly left her saddle, sleeping in it most nights, and only occasionally allowing herself to rest on the soft ground beside the road.

She had crossed into High Rock, finally leaving behind Hammerfell and reaching on to the city of Evermor. Delphine was not a great rider, had never found it enjoyable as others did, but need had spurred her on, and she had made the journey with a swiftness that surprised her.

And there before her, in the fading sun, were the walls of the city, still high and strong after their rebuilding in the second era.

As she slowed her horse to a walk Delphine looked back down the road, still feeling the anxiety and worry which had plagued her since she had left Brandon at Riverwood. Finding Esbern would not be an easy task, she knew, and deep down she also knew that she should have gone with him.

What was more important than stopping the dragons - what was more important than guarding the Dragonborn?

The rational part of Delphine's mind knew that nothing was; all else would be irrelevant if the dragons truly returned. And yet...

The Thalmor documents had said he was alive: another Blade, still surviving after all these years - she had thought him dead these last twenty-six years, since the end of the War. But the Thalmor had discovered him, or he had been betrayed, or careless; it was all the same, though, for the Thalmor in Skyrim, under Elenwen, had informed their colleagues in High Rock of a Blade in their midst. She had had no real choice after that, she knew, for she would never have forgiven herself for losing him again - even at such high a cost.

Brandon was strong though, despite his youth, and Delphine - for all her cynicism - felt a spark of faith inside her when she thought of Brandon; there was some hope for them all, and suddenly she knew, somehow, that he would not fail them. Esbern was in good hands, and he in turn, would guide Brandon well. For her part she did not truly know how she would rescue Eduard from the Thalmor, she knew only that haste was needed above all else.

Shaking off such thoughts, and bracing herself against the siren call of slumber, she pressed her heels against the flanks of her horse, and sped off into the gathering night.

* * *

The steady, regular drip of water was the only sound to penetrate the solid walls of his prison. At first he had been grateful, for the stark possibility of constant, deathless silence unnerved him to his core; but now, after however many hours or days of imprisonment - he was no longer sure of the passage of time, marking it only by irregular interruptions of his enforced solitude - the incessant drip had begun to gnaw at him.

Neither could he sleep; the shackles which bound him bound his good arm high above his head so that he was nearly suspended by it, and only the meagerest support could be offered by his legs. Whenever his eyes started closed and weariness overtook his will, he would fall forward and wrench his shackled arm which turned alive with pain and latent agony.

Eduard was beaten regularly, had in fact lost count of the number of occasions; these were observed by a black-robed justiciar he did not recognize, who had sometimes taken a hand in the proceedings, lending his considerable magical talents to the application of pain.

Out of pure, thoughtless habit, Eduard at first had steeled himself for interrogation, to resist the studied application of physical brutality for the acquisition of intelligence. But the men who visited such agony upon his body said nothing, no questions did they ask, nor give any sign or recognition that their task was carried out on a living, breathing creature.

Nor did they care, particularly, if he passed out from the pain; always they were there when he awoke, and the pain continued.

He drifted in and out of delirium, the pain crossed with the lack of food and sleep interfering with his ability to form a coherent picture of events. And then the visits stopped; the haze lifted from his eyes, and his mind again began to engage fully with his surroundings.

It was on that day - or so Eduard decided it to be, for he had no real way of knowing - that Lylim came for him.

For a meal the guards had fed him a small loaf of bread, a piece of cheese and salted fish, and even allowed him a small glass of vile red wine - though at that moment it tasted like the finest vintage he had ever put to his lips. A few drops of the stuff escaped his battered lips, and ran wetly down his chest, but Eduard was past caring.

In the torchlight that grudgingly entered his dank abode, Eduard saw the two guards withdraw to the entrance's sides, allowing another figure to enter. Robed and hooded though he was, Eduard recognized the justiciar immediately; his build and stance betrayed him before ever his face was revealed.

Lylim entered into the cell with a pleasant smile on his face. A chair was brought in for him, and he sat, delicately folding his long limbs into a courtly posture. Strange lights were brought and affixed to curious sconces, so that the stone walls shone with reflected brilliance, and the cell was light as with the light of day.

Only then, when he was satisfied as to his arrangements, did the justiciar turn his fastidious attention to his prisoner. Eduard felt the golden, cat-like eyes of the Altmer examine his half-naked form and turn, displeased, to the guard.

"Now is this any way to treat a guest?"

Lylim turned and smiled thinly at Eduard before continuing his quiet instructions to the guard.

"Bring a table and another chair for my friend - and some food so that we may eat."

They vanished silently, leaving Eduard and Lylim alone in the cell. The two watched each other, but said nothing until the guards returned, and Lylim retired. Taking a key from a loop on his belt, one of the guards unshackled Brandon's hand and his feet, letting him collapse limply to the floor.

With silent, unfeeling hands they washed him and dressed him in clean, simple clothes; and Eduard, to his shame, found his limbs too wearied and too weak to do more than hold himself upright. When this was done they brought in the table and a second chair and set it about with food and plates for two before returning to their places by the door.

Lylim entered once more and bade Eduard to sit with an outstretched gesture. There was a pause as Eduard considered it, and then sank shakily into the chair, his good hand on the table for support. The justiciar followed and his black robes rustled slightly in the measured, calculated movement.

"Please," he gestured towards the food, "eat."

Eduard's eyes never strayed from the justiciar's face; their eyes met.

"What do you want from me?"

The Altmer reached out a hand and flicked a non-existent piece of dust from his immaculate robes.

"Very little, to be honest," he replied, his eyes never straying from Eduard's. "A few hours of your time, every day."

"For what, exactly? My life story?"

"Yes."

"Really." Eduard's voice was flat with disbelief, but the Altmer betrayed no sign of prevarication.

"Indeed. There is nothing we wish to know that you would be reluctant to reveal... even to us."

"Then why..."

"Oh, the torture?" Lylim waved a dismissive hand. "Purely a matter of form, I assure you; merely to demonstrate what awaits any resistance - and to get the perfunctory procedures out of the way so that we could proceed on to our main interest."

"The Emperor."

Lylim steepled his fingers before his face and nodded, once. Eduard eyed the stiff guards by the doorway, taking in their stance, the firm disinterestedness of their expressions, the cleanliness of their armor and weapons: a hard fight to get clear of - even without a broken arm.

"And what makes you think I would agree to tell you anything at all?"

The corner of Lylim's mouth pulled tight against his cheek in what might have passed for a smirk; but there was no mirth in his eyes, only deathly malice. "Because I will torture you again until at last you agree; and because if even I should fail in that - which I promise I would not - you will be sent to the Isles, where there are far more creative and... quite honestly, distasteful, alternatives for your interrogation."

Here he paused, and rested his eyes meditatively on Eduard.

"There are many among Men who jealously watch the Mer among them; conscious of the long life and seemingly endless youth of our kindred. I suppose Bretons have a taste of it, but it is no small thing to live a thousand years - or more. It must sound ridiculous, I suppose, to complain of such a long life, but as I am sure you know, things are never so simple. For the both of us, I think, our lives have been a long search for meaning - for something to give weight to our years."

Lylim sighed and folded his hands in his lap. The food lay still-untouched upon the table, the wine undrunk, and the guards maintained their rigid posture.

"You will not leave here alive, Eduard. But tell me the things that I wish to know, and I may promise you, at least, a quick death: a soldier's death; a man's death."

"And that is all you wish to know? How I came to know the emperor?"

"That is all, yes."

Eduard dropped his eyes and stared at the stone floor. It galled him to even think of aiding the Thalmor, but the Blades were gone; his friends, his brothers lay dead these past twenty-six years; there was no one left to betray. He thought back to the pain he had suffered in his first days here, and wondered if he could really withstand more.

As a young man he had always told himself that he could withstand any torture, any inducement applied to him; but now he was no longer sure.

Eduard looked up and saw that Lylim's eyes had never left him. "Very well," he answered, "I will tell you of my life."

Lylim smiled and took a bite of the meal laid out for him, following it with a sip of wine. "Excellent," he said when the last drop had slid its way down his throat.

Eduard nodded bleakly. "Where should I begin?"

"Please," Lylim waved a hand, "there is no hurry; eat your fill."

It was awkward to eat with only his left hand, but with a few minutes' practice he was able to manage it. And so there he sat, Eduard of Farrun, Blade and swordbrother of the Emperor, eating a meal with a Thalmor justiciar.

When they had finished, two other guards entered to clear the table, and Lylim began.

"Why don't we start at the beginning?"

* * *

I was born in Farrun, in the province of High Rock, in the one-hundred and forty-second year of the Fourth Era. Though I did not know it at the time, I was born into a chaotic era; the Empire was weak, and had been since the Oblivion crisis - if not before. That, followed by the Red Year and the Argonian invasion of Morrowind left the Empire nearly crippled. I suppose it was these events which precipitated the rise of the Thalmor's power, but who can say for sure, other than they themselves?

In the year seventeen, Titus Mede I took the Imperial City with barely more than a thousand men - a worthy feat under any other circumstance, but the city had not been properly garrisoned for decades, and the chaos had depleted every measure of Imperial power. We were lucky, and the new Emperor was able to stabilize the provinces and rebuild the legions to some measure of their former strength.

But the Thalmor were still on the move, and over the next century, through various measures, they annexed Valenwood and Elsweyr into their newly-formed Dominion. Though Mede had rebuilt some of the Empire's strength, we were too weak to contest the province's secession. I think in many ways the Empire had never truly had the strength to retain those provinces by force; not since Tiber's days, anyway. Black Marsh, Elsweyr, Valenwood - even Morrowind had remained in the Empire more out of simple inertia than any inability to leave. But that is merely the opinion of a poorly-educated Blade; politics was never my strong suit.

So that was the world I found myself in at birth: a Tamriel divided between two powers: the nascent Aldmeri Dominion and an Empire too weak to control its own provinces. At the time, of course, I was too young to care about such things, and spent my days dreaming of knights and castles and magic swords, and fair maidens awaiting rescue from dread creatures.

They say that such things exist only in legends and the tales of bards, but in my experience they are found in our world just as readily, though their form may be very different from the tales.

My father was a minor noble under the ruling house of Farrun, and I was his third son. If my life had gone as planned, I could expect a simple life as a knight, perhaps in service to my eldest brother or, if I was lucky, a vassal of the king himself.

I remember it being a warm day, the day my life changed, though that might have had more to do with the heavy padding I was wearing.

Louis, my older brother of sixteen, and I were practicing at arms with my father's steward. We both took it very seriously, for every Breton child grows up dreaming of adventure and the quests which lie just over the furthest hill.

"Okay, boys," said the steward, a tall, severe Imperial of forty-seven, "let's try again."

I shook my head, trying to clear the sweat that was running down into my eyes from beneath the padded leather helmet. Ten paces from me my brother readied his wooden weapon and approached me cautiously, one step edging in front of the other.

I backed away and circled clumsily around, trying to get in his curtailed peripheral vision, where I might approach with an extra half second of grace before he saw my movement.

But my brother was always a better fighter than me, and he could tell right away what I was planning, so he simply ceased his advance and turned his body to face me. I stopped circling and we squared off again, deadly serious as only boys playing war can be.

I stepped forward and struck a wide right swing against Louis, who easily blocked the blow with his shield, sending a reply with his own wooden sword straight through my guard and tapping me on the chest.

I looked down to see the rounded tip of his weapon prodding firmly against the quilted padding of my gambeson, and I laughed. Louis smiled, and the steward said, "again." And so we did.

When the sun was in the last curve of its westward arc we halted, exhausted and drenched in sweat, to return our gear to the manor's small armory, and then raced each other down to the stream to bathe.

We were still there, laughing and splashing each other, our aches and pains forgotten for the moment, that I suddenly saw in the distance a large body of men approaching the manor.

Louis did not see them at first, for he was facing away from the road, and splashed me in an effort to return my attention to our game.

"Look," I said, wiping water from my eyes with one hand and pointing at the column with the other. The men were moving quickly down the road towards the manor, and I, in my youth, had never seen such a large force - though in truth there must have been little more than twenty. Louis turned to look, a confused expression on his face, and stopped still when he saw them.

Louis was more worldly than I, and after a shocked pause he darted from the water and went running up the slight incline towards our manor home. I watched him, a little confused, before finally deciding that I should follow him.

My father was not a wealthy noble, but he had several knights in service to him, and a large village of his own, and our manor was a good stone building with slate shingles - almost impervious to fire, our steward had told us one day when he had begun teaching us about fortifications.

The guards at the gate had indeed seen the approaching men, and told us quite calmly that there was no danger, and that by the look of the banner, it was the Prince himself come to see us. The sergeant of our guard came out and bustled us inside the guardroom and wrapped us each in a scratchy cloak for, in our haste to alert the manor of a possible enemy, we had forgotten our clothes on the stream's bank.

But despite the fact that our warning had been unnecessary, the sergeant smiled at us and ruffled our hair and told us that we had done right to come running.

We smiled gratefully at him, somewhat abashed, and hurried up the guardhouse's stairs to see the Prince and his men from above.

My mother and father met the Prince at the gate, dressed in their best clothes, for it was not every day that the Prince of Farrun paid a visit to his tenants. I remember my father as a tall, handsome man, and my mother slim and blonde and beautiful. But perhaps all children remember their parents to be so.

Perhaps also it was the veil of childhood wonder, but I also remember my brother and I being in awe of the Prince and his guard; he and his men rode in on fine white horses, and his mail gleamed silver in the glancing sunlight, and his high helm was finely inlaid with golden scrollwork. He was the image of a proud warrior-king, and I loved him for it.

Prince Hastrel dismounted at our gate, and his men followed their lord's example in a clatter of harness and gear. As they passed through, our own guard of ten men formed hurriedly into a single rank, and I was ashamed to notice the shabbiness of their gear in comparison to the prince's men; each wore a fine coat of mail and wore a tabard with the Prince's achievement embroidered into it, but only our sergeant had a coat of mail, and the rest wore leather sewn with metal rings by their wives.

The Prince seemed not to notice, and he and the captain of his men even shook hands with the sergeant as my mother and father led them into our manor. When Prince Hastrel was safely inside the main hall and out of the courtyard, the sergeant hurried us inside by another entrance and had one of the servants take us back to our quarters to dress.

The servants fussed at us as we entered our shared room and dressed us in our best tunics and leggings and boots, and sent us hurrying down to the main hall. Our feet echoed down the stone, but we took no notice, though we must have made quite a racket.

We burst breathlessly into the hall where the adults had already been seated. Our eldest brother, Herluin, frowned despairingly at our behavior. I was abashed, and looked down at the tips of my boots, but Louis only made a face at him, for Herluin had always been the most serious of us, and the most dedicated. He was eighteen now, and was seated by our father to listen and observe the meeting, for one day it would be he in father's place.

Our arrival had interrupted whatever conversation had been in progress, and our mother, quick on her feet as always, stood up and motioned for us to be brought forward. Prince Hastrel smiled as we approached in train behind our tall, slender mother, and he stood to meet us.

"These are your other sons, I take it, Lady Marielle?"

"Indeed, my lord," she replied and gently brought us forward to stand before the Prince. "This is Louis, my youngest but one," Louis bowed, "and Eduard, my youngest." I stood before the Prince, looking up into his kind eyes, his sharp features showing a lean, hard strength beneath the mail and quilt, and the way he carried the longsword at his hip spoke of hard experience. Indeed so deep was my examination that I forgot to bow until Louis nudged me and I started, remembering to bow awkwardly and mumbling the half-remembered formal greeting to one of the royal house.

He smiled kindly at me when I rose, and then squatted down in front of us so that his eyes were on a level with ours.

"And what would you like to be, Louis?" he asked after a pause.

"A knight, my lord," my brother answered without hesitation, and the prince nodded in approval.

"We can always use more good knights." Then his eyes turned to me, and he raised an eyebrow.

"And you, Eduard?"

I held his gaze for a while; I did not know what to say. I suppose at that time I wanted to be a knight, but for some reason I felt as if this was a critical moment in my life; that whatever I told the Prince would somehow guide the course of my life in ways I could not then imagine. So, I decided to be honest.

"I do not yet know, my lord."

"Indeed?" He studied me, and I could feel Louis watching me out of the corner of his eye.

Then the Prince looked up at my mother. "A wise answer." I smiled up at him gratefully, and my mother touched my shoulder comfortingly. And with that the interview was over; the Prince turned back to the table where my father and eldest brother were seated, and we were allowed to stand to one side with the steward.

"So there is no doubt?" my father asked when all had settled, "King Gregory is gathering an army?"

The Prince nodded. "Indeed. He claims there is some unrest in the Reach; that the army is to clear out the Reachmen that he claims are raiding his lands. Gregory says that if the High King will not police his own lands, he will do it for him."

"And do you believe him?"

"I have not decided. My father clearly does not, but the Reachmen have been a bane on that region for long years; I would not blame Gregory for finally taking an army into the Reach and clearing it of those Daedra-worshippers once and for all."

"But what of Skyrim's High King, or the Jarl of Markarth even? Surely they would not allow Gregory to march on their territory without protest. And the Reachmen are uncompromising adversaries."

The Prince was silent for a moment, nodding his head slowly as he considered my father's words.

"Then that leaves only one alternative: he intends to expand Jehenna's territory at our expense."

My father stared solemnly down at the table, his hands very still. I was confused, for I had always thought that Jehenna was a close ally of the Kingdom of Farrun, but in High Rock alliances shift constantly, and things are never as they appear.

From my vantage point I saw my mother slip a hand around my father's arm and squeeze gently, her eyes full of concern; she knew, as I and my brothers did not, what war was truly like, and she dreaded it.

Herluin's eyes, though, were shining, and he looked at the Prince as if he had promised him a kingdom; for Herluin was old enough to fight, and days ago had been presented with a fine sword my father had ordered for him.

I confess I had been jealous of my brother when my father had presented the sword, for it was a work of beautiful craftsmanship. The long blade was of shining steel, and the two fullers which ran its length showed the swirls and shifting patterns of light and dark that proved its quality.

And now, it seemed, my brother would be given a chance to anoint his blade in battle.

"Do we have the strength to resist him?"

The Prince shrugged his shoulders in response to my father's questions. "Perhaps. It will be a close-run thing in either case. My father has snapped up every band of mercenaries and every louse-ridden adventurer that he could find. It might be enough." Another shrug, and then silence. My father frowned.

"Surely the Emperor will not allow this. What of the garrison at Evermor?"

"The half-strength legion spread all across the kingdom?" The Prince laughed. "No my friend, the Empire is weak, rotten to the core, and its time has long since come; we stand alone."

"Even so," my father persisted, "the legate has two-thousand men at his command; that is no small force."

"I will ask my father to send a messenger to the base at Evermor; perhaps they will come - and perhaps not. The legion long ago stopped taking an interest in local politics."

"Forgive me, my lord, but this is more than local politics; Jehenna intends to either invade another province or destroy our kingdom. I believe the Imperial government will have something to say in either case."

The Prince shrugged again. "That is to be seen."

I did not like this talk, for the Empire had been a constant background presence in my life: a stable, ever-present force that, for me, promised security and peace. Naivete, I suppose.

"Your brother is in service to King Gregory, is he not?" I sensed that the real purpose of the Prince's visit was revealed, and that my father had been waiting all this time for that exact question. My mother stared intently at the Prince, but he evaded her gaze.

"Indeed he is, my lord."

The Prince nodded contemplatively, and I suddenly wondered just how much the heir to Farrun's throne would hesitate before ordering us all to be killed - should our loyalty prove suspect.

"And have you had recent contact with him?"

My father shook his head. "Not for some years, my lord."

"Then we may count on you, should the worst come to pass, and Jehenna marches on our kingdom?"

"You may, my lord, I swear it."

"Good."

And then the tension was gone, and the Prince laughed and everyone smiled - even my eldest brother, and food was brought and the fire was lit, and we feasted our king's heir until dusk fell.

I woke the next morning and dressed quickly, for in the courtyard below I could hear the sounds of men and horses readying themselves for a journey; I did not wish to miss the Prince's departure.

Our guard again formed up to salute the Prince as he passed through the gate, the splendour of his men and their gear undimmed by the pale morning light, and in that moment I envied my brother his chance to ride with such a leader of men.

My mother and father were unusually quiet and subdued for the next few days, though Louis and I rambunctiously redoubled our sword lessons, hoping, I think, to show our father that we were ready to fight if necessary.

Herluin was withdrawn and quiet long after the Prince had gone, and no longer spoke to us as he once did. At the time I thought it strange, and was a little hurt, for I had long depended on his support and friendship. Now though, I think he was realizing what was at stake: the manor, the lands around it, it's people: his inheritance; all might soon depend on the outcome of a single battle - a battle in which he might lose his own life.

Such thoughts did not cross my mind then, and instead I spent my time thinking of all the places in Tamriel I would wish to see, the strange and wondrous things I heard about in tales and songs, and dreamed of riding into battle alongside a great leader.

Weeks passed, and we began to believe that all had been merely the shadow of a threat that would never appear. But one day a messenger arrived, his horse lathered with sweat, and told my father that the King of Jehenna was marching on Farrun, and our king had summoned his vassals to face him.

**UH**


	4. Shadows of the Past: Chapter Three

**Blade of the Emperor**

**Book I: Shadows of the Past**

**Chapter Three**

* * *

Ivarstead, Imperial Province of Skyrim, Summer 4E201

To the attentive eye, the carriage passing through the wooded outskirts of the small village of Ivarstead might have held another four passengers - if not more - than it currently did. But such an attentive eye, and even a more casual one, would also have taken note of the wooden, splintery seats, and the rickety manner of the carriage's forward motion. Indeed, it did not require an overactive imagination to think of any number of reasons as to the dearth of passengers; frugality and an under-abundance of alternatives would likely be among the first to come to mind.

And indeed such a hypothetical watcher would have seen that the passengers fit rather comfortably into that model: an old man, bald, but leant a distinguished air by his full beard - though his clothing was rather shabby - and a youthful-looking mercenary, whose gear was old but well-maintained.

The older man looked about him with an air of quiet vigilance, his keen eyes quested ceaselessly across the passing scenery, enjoying the serenity of the surroundings and the beauty of the snow-capped mountain which loomed above him.

The younger man was not seated, but lay against the backboard of the carriage, his knees tucked up against his chest, his arms wrapped around them, and his head laid on top of them. A long black-sheathed sword lay against his shoulder, the dark leather pressed against his cheek. He was asleep.

For a moment, the older man, whose name was Esbern, abandoned his inspection of the countryside, and looked kindly at his companion. They were deep, expressive eyes, and at that moment they brought forth a range of emotions - hope, chief of all.

Looking up Esbern realized that they had not been as far from the village as he had thought only moments ago, and saw the outlying houses come up to meet their clattering advance. Few people were out and about, though Esbern suspected that was not unusual, and only the pair of guards chatting by the roadside seemed to take notice of the carriage.

It was a break in their routine, at least, but an uninteresting one, and the guards waved the carriage on without bothering to stop it. Esbern inspected the village as they passed through, his sharp eyes catching detail after detail.

The younger man woke suddenly and was instantly alert.

"We're slowing down." His voice was still a little husky from his long sleep.

Esbern frowned but did not answer, for indeed the driver was pulling back on the reins and turning the carriage off the road and into an open space beside what appeared to be the village inn.

"What's going on," demanded the younger man of the driver, "we paid you to take us to Whiterun."

The driver shook his head slowly and looked at both of his passengers, encompassing them in a single weary gaze.

"I'm sorry, but something doesn't feel right about the old girl," by this Esbern thought he must mean the carriage, "so I thought we should stop here and look at it now, before we're off in the wilds with no aid to be found."

Without waiting for a response, the driver dismounted and began a lengthy inspection of the carriage's body. A few villagers passed disinterestedly by them, heading to or from the inn standing just feet from the carriage. The two passengers watched their comings and goings with unwilling resentment; they felt trapped and harried, and their watchful eyes prowled around, looking for any sign of surveillance.

At last, the driver emerged from his survey and climbed back into his seat at the front of the carriage.

"Wheel's broke," he reported, "fractured. Can't risk going any further until it's been replaced."

"And how long will that take?"

"Could be a while, maybe a week," the driver mused, and then looked slyly at his passengers, "but we're lucky enough to be in a mill town - might be we could work something out sooner, for the right price."

The younger man looked questioningly at Esbern, who simply nodded. "I'm afraid we don't have much choice, Brandon."

They watched as the driver, twenty septims richer, walked cheerfully down the road towards the blacksmith.

"Even so," said Brandon, "we'll have to stay here at least another day - even with the bribe."

Seemingly unconcerned with the unexpected delay, Esbern spryly got out of the carriage and began making for the inn. "Then I suppose we should take a room."

Brandon watched him for a moment before shrugging helplessly and following the older man inside.

The inn was surprisingly clean, and their dinner was quite excellent, but Brandon was restless and did not sleep more than a few hours that first night. Instead he paced their small room, sword belted about his waist and inexplicably on edge.

"You look tired, Brandon," observed Esbern when morning came and they sat down in the inn's common room to eat breakfast. The younger man only grunted and Esbern shook his head and smiled.

The morning air was warm, and the pair enjoyed the bright sunlight that enlivened their limbs, still heavy from sleep. Brandon's eyes lingered on the cloud-wreathed summit of the Throat of the World.

"I should like to see the steps. Shall we climb a little? To the first shrine, at least?" Brandon nodded silently, and their feet turned down the path leading to the mountain.

They walked up the path silently and mounted the first of the famous stairs, seven thousand strong. Esbern was breathing a little harder when they reached the first shrine, though Brandon seemed to have had no difficulty with the climb - or if he had, he was determined not to show it in front of an older man such as Esbern.

Though the dark stone of the small shrine stood in stark contrast to the browns and greens of its surroundings, Brandon took no notice of it and occupied himself with the view that was presented even this short way up. But Esbern spent a quarter of an hour sitting before the shrine, reading and re-reading the inscriptions, thinking and pondering while Brandon sat with his back against a nearby tree, ever-watchful.

"You have been there, I assume," Brandon looked at him, and Esbern nodded towards the mountain's peak. "To High Hrothgar?"

Brandon followed Esbern's gaze, and lingered there thoughtfully.

"Yes."

"When did they call you?"

"Weeks ago, I think; it was right after Whiterun."

Esbern frowned. "'After Whiterun?'" he echoed, "What do you mean?"

"I mean after I killed my first dragon."

"Ah." Esbern nodded, understanding. "That is when you knew that you were Dragonborn?"

Brandon shrugged, and he lowered his eyes to stare at the dirt beneath him. "I had no idea at the time, but the Nords did. I remember..." His voice faltered and he made a dismissive motion with one hand. Silence settled over the pair once more.

"There had been rumors all over the province about the dragons' return, and for years people had heard about them, but most people dismissed it. The war took too much of their attention, and besides, only Helgen had been actually attacked in all that time.

"But then something changed. We defeated the Stormcloaks at the battle outside Windhelm and the war was over; Ulfric was dead and the Empire was in control once again. I was discharged and had to find some way to make a living, so I became a mercenary.

"I worked my way down south from Solitude, heading towards Whiterun, stopping in each town along the way, sometimes for a week, sometimes for only a few days. I'd do jobs for the townspeople and they'd give me a bed and a hot meal, and then I'd leave. Since the war was over, though, there weren't a lot of high paying jobs - not for one man by himself, anyway, as I'm sure you could tell."

He gestured ruefully to the poor-quality armor he wore, and smiled at Esbern.

"At last, though, I found myself in Whiterun. I'm not sure what I intended to do there, but I suppose I just wanted to get away from the north and the cold. One of the other centurions in my cohort had come from Whiterun and when we talked of home - which was not often - he always called her the most beautiful of cities.

"I had little money left, so I was always on the lookout for the next job. I stopped by the blacksmith, I forget why, maybe to get my dagger sharpened, or to buy some arrows, and I got to talking with her. She took a liking to me, I guess, and mentioned that the jarl was looking for someone to take care of a job; she suggested I go talk to her father, the steward.

"I thanked her, paid her, and went on my way. I had never worked for a jarl, so I was a little nervous about taking the job. But after I paid my last septim to the innkeeper for a bed and a meal, I figured I didn't have much choice. And besides, I liked the city and wanted to stay - at least for a while. So I finished my stew and loaf of bread, and climbed up the hill towards the jarl's palace.

"The guards let me enter once I explained my business and mentioned the blacksmith's name - Adrianne, I think it was - and escorted me to speak to the steward. Again, I mentioned his daughter's name, and I guess that got me some credit, for after a few minutes he took me to see Jarl Balgruuf.

"His housecarl - a Dunmer if you can believe it, named Irileth - seemed to take an instant dislike of me, though I half-suspected that she treated everyone that way - and still does, for all I know.

"The jarl didn't pay much attention to me, he just asked a few questions that any employer would, probably more to intimidate me through his rank and attention rather than anything else, and to impress upon me the importance of the task he was giving me. I still didn't know what I was being asked to do, and said so.

"The jarl didn't bother to explain it himself, and I was sent to talk to the court wizard, Farengar, who explained that he had been researching the dragons, ever since rumor had begun about their return, years ago. I was to retrieve an ancient stone - a map, more accurately - called the Dragonstone which supposedly recorded all the dragon burial sites in Skyrim."

Brandon shook his head and smiled at the memory. "Fate has a sense of humor, they say, and they must be right. Farengar told me that according to legend, and his own research, the stone was held at Bleak Falls Barrow - a place I had passed years ago when I fled north from Helgen." Another smile.

"I went that afternoon. I won't bore you with the details, but I found the stone, after crawling through what felt like miles of barrow, and I returned to Whiterun a few days later, tired and hungry, and a little the worse for wear." He paused. "I did find one other thing, though, that I did not expect: a wall, carved almost from the living rock, and covered with strange, sharp symbols - the dragon language. I learned my first Word there, though I didn't understand at the time what had happened.

"It was raining when I finally returned, and I trudged through the gates and up the sodden streets toward the jarl's palace, but the steward was kind enough to feed me and let me warm myself by the huge fire. Farengar was ecstatic when I presented him with the stone, and just as quickly forgot I was even there.

"That was the first time I met Delphine, though I did not know it at the time; she wore a hood so that I could not see her face, but she seemed sincere enough when she complimented me on surviving the barrow."

Below them, Ivarstead carried on its business; it was a calm, sleepy town, as if the monastic habits of High Hrothgar had spread down the mountain and shared themselves with the inhabitants.

Esbern's gaze lingered on his younger companion. He had not expected to find a dragon's soul inhabiting such a body; the boy could not have seen more than twenty winters. After all his long years, first with the Blades, and then in hiding, Esbern had never believed hope existed. He had accepted the world's end: if - when - Alduin returned, the world would be consumed and all would end.

But now... now the life of all creation depended on this boy seated in front of him - if he was Dragonborn at all, which Esbern still did not fully believe - though it seemed Delphine was certain enough.

Brandon sighed, bringing Esbern's attention back to the younger man, and off his silent ruminations. "What could possibly make her leave like that, and send me off to find you by myself?" A pause. "I mean, it all worked out, but..."

Their eyes met. "I don't know, Brandon. But Delphine was never one to let herself be ruled by emotion; believe me, I am sure she had her reasons.

"But what those reasons might be... we will have to ask her ourselves when she returns."

Brandon scowled. "If she returns."

"Yes, if," Esbern acknowledged, "but Delphine is very capable." He chuckled. "You might even be surprised."

Brandon shrugged. "Perhaps," he agreed, and continued his story.

"We could hear the rain stop through the rafters and shingles of the palace, and as the great doors at the palace's entrance slammed shut, I could hear the hard breathing of a messenger as he charged up the stairs towards the jarl.

"The housecarl quickly interposed herself and spoke in low tones with the wild-eyed man. I remember feeling a sense of great unease at the sight of him, and I began slowly collecting my things to leave." Brandon chuckled to himself. "Living the life of a mercenary tends to encourage the development of a healthy sense of self-preservation, and I found that I could almost always tell when a situation was about to become extraordinarily dangerous." He sighed. "And, of course, I was right.

"The messenger came from an old watchtower to the city's west, where, apparently, Balgruuf had kept a guard. At first, I think, Irileth did not believe the man; everyone had heard rumors of dragons, but none had actually made their presence known - if they truly were back - and years breed disbelief.

"But Irileth finally relented and allowed the man to speak with the jarl, who was similarly reluctant to credit the man's story. Yet the man was a member of his own guard, and after warning the man that dire consequences awaited him should his tale prove false, he ordered his housecarl to gather a contingent and investigate.

"I had overheard the messenger's report, and I knew what was about to come; I had no desire to fight a dragon - not after Helgen - and so I tried very hard to look inconspicuous - to no avail.

"'Gather any mercenaries you can find,' Balgruuf told her, 'and send them too: no arguments.' I guess if he was going to send men up against a dragon, he wanted to lose as few of his own as possible. Irileth nodded in understanding, and her dark red eyes swiveled mercilessly to rest on me as I felt my fate slipping out from under my feet. 'We could use you,' she told me, and I cursed under my breath as I realized that I hadn't yet been paid for retrieving the Dragonstone.

"An hour later we were moving towards the tower, still small in the distance; the Whiterun soldiers were in a disciplined formation, but I and the other sellswords simply straggled along behind them: none of us were happy to be there - even the rumor of a dragon was enough for us: mercenaries are surprisingly credulous when it comes to the prospect of danger. But Balgruuf would not be gainsaid, and we had been assured that any reluctance on our part would be poorly received. So we went.

"When we finally reached the tower, there was no sign of the soldiers stationed there, and smoke drifted from patches of burning wood and grass. Fifty yards away, Irileth hailed the tower, got no response, and sent two of her men to investigate. 'Spread out,' she ordered us, 'and look for survivors.' The mercenaries and I cautiously moved forward, looking around, each of us on edge - we could see it in each others' eyes. I took out my bow and nocked an arrow as I scanned the ground around us, looking for signs of friend or enemy.

"We heard a roar sound out across the sky, and I remembered Helgen: the roar, the disbelief, the shock of the dragon's attack. As one we mercenaries ran for the tower, pushing past Irileth's men as they returned from the tower shouting and yelling for their friends to get inside; from the tower's top they must have seen the dragon approach.

"His first strike cut across our path and laid a swathe of flame before us, isolating us from the men hiding in the tower. I dove to the ground, avoiding the flame by only a few seconds. A few arrows spattered off his scaly hide as the dragon flew over us, and I could feel the heat pouring off his massive body. We scattered, and I drew my bow and loosed arrow after arrow at him.

"We finally brought him down, or he decided to come down, and we moved in to attack him. He was not as big as the dragon who attacked Helgen, but he was a terror even so, and he must have killed ten men before we were able to finally kill him."

"How did you kill him?"

Brandon took a sip from his waterskin and sighed. "Eventually? Irileth put a spear through his eye.

"We began tending to our wounded - there were few, since the dragon killed most of what he hit - and as I turned away from the dragon's body I felt this... rush, and as I turned back I saw light stream out of the dragon's body and wrap itself around me. I felt fresh and new and powerful, and I understood at last the word I had learned in Bleakfall Barrow: 'fus.'

"Everything had gone silent, and as the light faded, the dragon's body began to dissolve itself, as if it had contained a fire inside it that, with death, was released to consume the thing which had kept it prisoner; only the dragon's bones remained.

"Then all the Nords crowded around me, the battle already forgotten, calling me 'Dragonborn.' I was confused, and I had no idea what they were talking about. They all started talking at once, trying to explain, until finally one cut in and asked me to Shout; that would answer everything, he said. That was one thing I did know, somehow, deep in the very core of my being; the ... soul ... I had taken from the dragon we had killed had gifted me the power to use the Word I had learned, and so I Shouted and all was still once more.

"Everyone was quiet on the way back to Whiterun, and I was kept apart, the others looking askance at me, and Irileth regarding me with something close to suspicion; I suppose the way Ulfric killed High King Torygg was not far from her mind."

"It is the job of a housecarl to be suspicious."

"Indeed. Regardless, it was on the way back to Whiterun that the Greybeards called me, though at the time I did not know what it was, until the Nords among our party told me. We returned to the city without further incident, and Irileth reported on the events she had been witness to.

"The steward was as suspicious as Irileth, but Balgruuf overrode them both and let me approach. We talked for a while, and he told me that I should go see the Greybeards at High Hrothgar, for only they could guide me. So the next day I left, and climbed the Seven-Thousand Steps when I reached Ivarstead."

"What were the Greybeards like?"

Brandon made a noncommittal motion with his hands. "I don't know. They seemed, in their way, almost as doubtful as Irileth. Reserved, I guess I would call them, almost cagey," he grinned, "but I suppose that's to be expected from a group of hermits living halfway up a mountain.

"Once they were satisfied that I was Dragonborn, they sent me off to find some horn, as a rite of passage, I guess, and that's how I found Delphine - or, I should say, how Delphine found me. She took the horn before I could find it and left a note for me to meet her in Riverwood.

"That's when she told me about the Blades, and about the Thalmor, but she wasn't quite ready to believe that I was the Dragonborn yet, either; so she devised a little test. According to her, the dragons were not 'returning' but being reborn from their ancient burial mounds, and, she said, the next one to be brought back to life would be at a little town called Kynesgrove. We went, and I killed my second dragon."

"How many have you killed?"

"Just the two," Brandon replied, nodding slowly. "Delphine was convinced that the Thalmor were behind it all, so after we had killed the dragon at Kynesgrove we decided to sneak into the Thalmor embassy to find out what they knew.

"It was a foolish thing to do. How could the Thalmor have anything to do with bringing back the dragons? No one has that kind of power. And as it turned out, they don't have any better idea than we do." A pregnant, thoughtful pause. "You say that this dragon, Alduin, he is the reason for the dragons' return?"

Esbern nodded and caught Brandon's eye. "That's right. But remember Brandon, Delphine has many reasons to hate the Thalmor - as do I. We suffered greatly at their hands during the War, and until you found me, I did not believe any other Blades had survived at all.

"For thirty years, since the day the Thalmor declared war on the Empire, we have been hunted and killed by those monsters. Do not underestimate them; they are vicious, cruel, and calculating. And they will stop at nothing to accomplish their goals."

"And what would those be?"

Slowly, Esbern moved to his feet and approached Brandon. "I could not say for certain, and for right now, they are not our first concern. The dragons, and Alduin's return, are far more pressing. Remember, Brandon, you, and only you, stand between all of creation and utter destruction. "Now," he concluded, and smiled kindly at Brandon, "let's see if our carriage is fixed, hm?"

* * *

Outskirts, Kingdom of Daggerfall, Imperial Province of High Rock

Even from behind the hill Delphine could hear the sounds of the Thalmor embassy as its inhabitants went about their business. The sun was still fading in the west, and the deepening sky was a vivid royal blue. Birds and other forest creatures were settling in for the night as others emerged from their daytime lairs to prowl the concealing darkness.

As they scattered through the forest, so did Delphine creep silently through the underbrush, disturbing neither leaf nor twig with her passing. Such caution made her slow; she was not an experienced woodsman, to breeze through a dense forest leaving neither sign nor memory. But she could, with time, move silently and leave little trace; but she knew that time was bought at great price.

Once, long ago, Delphine had seen the inside of a Thalmor interrogation camp, and she, in her youth, had not believed such horrors could exist on the face of the earth. The Thalmor who had fled had not had the time to finish their grisly work, and the camp was nearly covered with awful vestiges of humanity. There was nothing to be saved, and their captain ordered it burnt to the ground, and put the sufferers to the sword; they were beyond saving. Days later, still coming out of the shock from what she had seen, she had felt the need to talk with someone, anyone, in an effort to expunge the memories from her mind.

She found Esbern in his tent one night, and in short, stammering bursts, told him what she had seen. She had hated looking so weak in front of him - hated it in front of anyone - but especially because she had only seen what the Thalmor had done, no such torture had been inflicted upon her own person. But Esbern just listened calmly and quietly, and let her talk and then, when she had expunged the poisonous memories, he put his arm around her and spoke to her in a fatherly voice, and told her that all would be well.

But she would be damned if she left Eduard to such a fate.

And you will be damned, she thought, if you don't get moving.

When she neared the crest of the hill she lowered herself to the ground and crawled forward on her hands and knees. From behind a broad tree-trunk, she peeked out and looked down on the Thalmor embassy.

It was a large compound, larger than the embassy in Skyrim, and in the courtyard below, Delphine could just make out a group of soldiers - perhaps ten or fifteen - drilling in the twilight. Other soldiers exited from the large building behind them and crossed the courtyard to other areas of the compound; guards with torches walked the high stone wall and Delphine could see even more moving inside the buildings. There were certainly thirty, at least, possibly more, and Delphine began to feel her hopes fade. How could she possibly rescue him from such a place?

She balled her fists in futile rage and despair, but the fire inside her would not dim, would not give up, and so she watched the embassy all through the next day and into the night, trying desperately to uncover some weakness she might exploit. But there was none to be found, and as she wearily retreated back down the hill to where her horse patiently waited, she knew that she would need help if she was to successfully break in and rescue Eduard.

It was evening by the time she reached Daggerfall, and the city's walls were draped in the green banners of the kingdom. Stern-looking guards watched over the gates, and Delphine only just managed to get inside before they were closed for the night.

It did not take her long to find what she was looking for; she only needed to ask two people for directions, and they quickly directed her to where she was going.

The shield and crossed swords of the Fighters Guild swung lazily beside the guildhouse door as Delphine climbed the shallow stairs and knocked hard on the wooden entrance.

A tough-looking woman, armed and armored, opened the door and inspected Delphine in the torchlight.

"What do you want?" She asked, having finished her inspection and now regarded Delphine with a suspicious eye.

"Got a job I need doing," answered Delphine. The woman eyed Delphine, taking in the hard-looking Breton, the sword and armor she wore, and the determined set of her features. She shrugged and stood aside.

"Talk to the boss," said the woman, and shut the door behind them, "she'll be the one who'll decide if your job is worth doing."

Delphine was led up a flight of stairs to the building's upper level, where, after a few turns down a hallway, a sturdy door confronted them. "Wait here," said the woman, and passed through the door, leaving Delphine standing impatiently outside. Minutes passed before the woman reemerged, leaving the door open; candlelight flooded through the door into the dim hallway as the woman stepped silently aside, making it clear to Delphine that she was to enter.

As she did so she glanced around the room, noting its sparsely decorated interior: a single bookshelf stood to one side, laden with volumes, a few rugs covered the hard wooden floor, and a banner hung limply on the wall facing the door. A tall black-haired Dunmer was seated behind a desk covered in papers; she rose as Delphine entered and shut the door behind her.

"Please," the Dunmer said in a quiet voice, "have a seat."

Delphine took the offered chair and the Dunmer sat when her visitor had settled. The two women appraised each other in silence as they sat, each measuring the capability of the other. It was the Dunmer who at last broke the silence.

"My name is Inera, and I am the senior member of the Guild here in Daggerfall." She paused. "Frei said you looked like a woman I could deal with. I hope she was right.

"So," she continued, in the same calm, quiet voice, "how may I help you?"

"I'm looking to hire some of your men for a job."

Inera arched an eyebrow, "How many, exactly?" she questioned.

"Five, maybe ten." The dark elf nodded slowly, and Delphine saw the slight hint of disapproval glint through the other woman's eyes.

"And what might this job entail?"

"Rescue."

"Of what?"

"A friend."

"From where?"

Delphine hesitated.

"I warn you: do not lie. My men will simply leave you as soon as they discover that you have misrepresented the job they were contracted to do - they'll keep their fee, too. If you really want my help, you'll be honest with me."

Trust had never come easily to Delphine. In her entire life, she had found only one other individual in whose faith she had placed herself entirely. Too often she had seen the results of betrayed trust firsthand; the damage she had seen inflicted on others had further hardened her against the attractions of trust and fellowship. Perhaps that had been why espionage had always been her forte as a Blade.

Was Inera a woman to be trusted - even a little? Or would she betray that trust at the first opportunity? But now Delphine had few options; it was not the old days, where there existed a force she could call upon for aid; now she was alone, and needed friends - or, at least, allies.

The Dunmer mercenary regarded her with a patient eye, and Delphine knew, somehow, that the other woman was entirely aware of the internal conflict to which she was now subjected.

In the end though, Delphine had only one choice: she decided to trust.

"A friend of mine has been captured by the Thalmor; we were together in the War. They're holding him at the embassy." Inera's eyes widened, and she shot from her seat.

"No," she said forcefully, "Absolutely not," and began moving toward the door, clearly intending to have Delphine shown out.

"Wait," Delphine stood and intercepted her halfway to the door. They were of a height, and their eyes met.

"Please," Delphine began, "he's all I have left. I lost everyone else in the War - and... after," she hesitated "and for twenty-six years... I thought that he was dead too. Now I've found him again, but..."

Inera considered her, and Delphine thought she saw the hint of sympathy in her eyes. "I see," was all that she said, and a lengthy silence settled over the two of them.

"Look," Inera said at last, "this isn't the Legion. I can't just order these men to go on a suicide mission - which is what this would be, make no mistake.

"But as much as we talk about the Guild, we're still mercenaries, and these men will expect to be paid - even if I did decide to sanction the job."

"How much?"

Inera looked around her small office, and Delphine, to her surprise, saw that she was ashamed. "Three thousand. Each."

"Three thousand?" Delphine echoed incredulously, and Inera nodded slowly in confirmation.

"I'm sorry, but I wouldn't expect them to take the job for any less. We have no love for the Thalmor here in Daggerfall, but to attack the Embassy... That is something else entirely."

"I have not even half such a sum."

"Then I truly am sorry." And indeed Delphine saw a look of sincere sadness in the other woman's eyes. She could only nod.

"Of course," she replied hollowly, "I understand."

They turned and crossed the short distance remaining to the room's door, and as Delphine exited, Inera's quiet voice stopped her on the threshold.

"We have a spare bed, if you need one."

Delphine turned and considered the quiet woman she had just met, giving her time to continue.

"It's down in the main quarters, so there's not a lot of privacy, but it's out of the wind and rain, and you'll be under the Guild's protection while you're here." She suddenly looked sad. "I know it's not much, but it's the most I can do right now."

Delphine smiled, and nodded her acceptance. "Thank you."

"Good. We have a stable for your horse, and you're welcome to stay for as long as you're in Daggerfall. And..." Inera hesitated, meeting Delphine's eyes and giving her a small, encouraging smile, "I will do my best to find a way to help you - and your friend. I know time must be pressing, but be cautious. The Thalmor have eyes everywhere."

A few members of the Guild had been in the sleeping quarters when Delphine entered, but aside from a few questioning glances, they had accepted her presence without comment.

As Delphine lay back on the small cot that she had been told was hers, her mind turned despairingly towards Eduard, and the seemingly impossible task of rescuing him from the Thalmor.

Today though, Delphine believed that she had made an ally, perhaps even a friend, and though it did not at first seem that Inera would be able to help, Delphine felt that she had made progress. Just a little, perhaps, but it was something nonetheless.

She had, at least, found a safe place to stay in Daggerfall, and that would better allow her to concentrate on her efforts to rescue Eduard. Ten men could probably do it she thought, and five very lucky ones just might manage; but whether it was fifteen or fifty, Delphine possessed nothing near the coin to hire that many mercenaries.

Tomorrow would be a new day, and as her head rested against the pillow of her bed, she knew that she still had a long road ahead of her.

* * *

Wilderness, Imperial Province of High Rock

The flickering firelight cast dusky shadows in the trees, and a night wind blew through the branches, rustling and caressing the leaves.

Rosalyn looked up into the darkened sky and touched a hand to her breast, feeling the amulet of Kynareth beneath her armor. The quiet prayer she whispered was caught by the light breeze and whisked gently up into the airy realm of her goddess.

She had left North Point early, hoping to reach Alain's village before nightfall, and though she had no horse available, she set a quick pace and her long, easy stride made short work of the distance lying before her.

She had seen the column of smoke rising into the sky long before she reached the village, and her heart had sunk in her breast. Though she had already heard what happened, seeing it for herself somehow hardened the knowledge in her heart, and her spirit sank.

But she had refused to shrink away, refused to let fear control her; she reminded herself of her purpose, and thought of Alain under the knife of some Thalmor filth, and she remembered a time when she had not been a priestess of Kynareth, but a mercenary in the company of warriors.

She could feel the wary gaze of the villagers linger on her as she approached along the dirt road towards them, but she focused instead on the smouldering ruin of an outlying home.

His home.

Even burnt to the ground, the heat of it touching her face even in the daylight sun, Rosalyn could see that it had once been a fairly large. Though still warm, it was cool enough for her to enter, and she sifted through the burnt timber and scorched stone, not entirely certain what she was looking for, but not wanting to miss anything he might have left behind.

A man had cleared his throat from outside the house, drawing her attention away from the charred remnants of Alain's home.

Hand on her sword hilt, she stood and cautiously exited the house to find herself confronted by a tall, well-dressed man, flanked on either side by hard-looking men armed with spears and shields.

"What's your business here?" the man asked.

Rosalyn waved a hand at the burnt home. "I came to see what happened to my friend."

The man nodded, and made a subtle motion with his head that caused his two guards to relax a little, and regard Rosalyn with slightly less suspicion.

"And how did you know Alain?"

"He often came to my temple in North Point."

The man's face fell. "Ah. You would be the priestess, Rosalyn, then?"

"I am."

"I see. I am Giraud, the lord's steward." Rosalyn bowed her head in acknowledgement as he extended a hand in invitation."Would you walk with me?" The two guards fell in behind them as they walked back towards the village, side by side.

"We are all very sorry," he hesitated, "for your loss. Alain was a very private man, but his attachment to you was known amongst his few friends. It was they who sought to inform you when... well." Giraud trailed off, leaving the rest unsaid. Rosalyn nodded, her face a pale mask.

"Is there anything," Giraud began again, "anything I may do to help you?"

Rosalyn considered him, letting her eyes examine his hard, thin face, clean shaven and well-groomed. "Would you tell me what happened?"

"Yes, of course. But let us return to my home, so that you may have something to eat and drink after your journey. Did you walk all the way from North Point?"

Rosalyn suppressed a sigh of impatience and nodded slowly. "I did, yes."

"Just so." Replied the steward, and led her and his guards to a large house close by to what was clearly the lord's manor.

When they were both settled in chairs inside the steward's home, with goblets of mead and plates of food before them, Giraud directed his full attention to the quiet priestess before him.

"Priestess, please believe me that I offer..." he trailed off, intimidated by Rosalyn's emotionless features. "That we all..." he tried again lamely, her eyes showing nothing but polite interest. "How may I help?" he asked at last.

"I would like to know what happened."

"Ah, yes." The steward spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. "It was late at night when they came, and it was only when the guards heard sounds of fighting coming from Alain's house that we had any idea that something was wrong." He looked into her eyes, searching for judgment, pain, any sign of what the priestess might be thinking. "The lord gathered his men, and we rode out to investigate.

"But we were too late, priestess. By the time we got to the house, whatever had happened was over, and the Thalmor were already putting the house to the flames. At first, of course, we didn't know who it was, and the lord reined up about thirty yards from them, and demanded to know their business.

"But they didn't pay any notice of us, brushed us off with some story about "Thalmor business," and advised us not to interfere. After that, a Thalmor in black robes rode right by us, followed by all his men. They..." he paused, "they had Alain's body strapped to a horse."

"Why didn't you just attack them?" Rosalyn's voice was quiet.

"The Thalmor have leave to root out Talos worshippers throughout the Empire, priestess; there was nothing we could do."

Rosalyn's eyes flashed. "No. Before they told you who they were."

"They were too many, priestess, we could see that much."

"Someone could have been attacking your village, but instead you chose to sit and talk?" Rosalyn's voice betrayed her disbelief.

Giraud looked away, avoiding her piercing gaze. "I do not pretend to know the mind of my lord, priestess..."

"He knew, didn't he?" her sharp voice cut through his half-hearted prevarication.

"Knew what?"

"He knew the Thalmor were looking for Alain, and so he gave him up. For gold, maybe?"

Silence.

"Why would the Thalmor take his body?" she continued. Giraud looked at her, and she could see the pain clearly in his eyes. "He wasn't dead, was he?" she asked softly, and hope sprang up inside of her once more, and suddenly her anger was forgotten. The shake of his head confirmed her suspicions, and she smiled.

Giraud was not a sentimental man - indeed, he had never married - but the look of quiet joy on the face of the beautiful priestess softened a heart that had been hardened by many long and difficult years.

"Priestess," he began, trying to spare her the agony of shattered hopes, "he has been taken by the Thalmor; if he was not dead then, he might as well have been."

"No," she replied with fierce determination, "I will find him, and I will bring him back."

"Priestess..." the steward repeated, shaking his head, trying to find the words needed to convince her of the folly of what she planned to do. But the look of determination in her eyes showed how futile such an effort would be, and so he abandoned it.

She stood suddenly and thanked him for his help. As she gracefully turned towards the door, Giraud found himself speaking, almost against his will. "Priestess, there is one other thing." She turned and watched him patiently, giving him time to finish his statement.

"If you are determined in this-"

"I am."

"-then let me offer you what help I can. Alain stayed apart from most in the village, but he was a good man, always willing to lend a hand when he could; he did not deserve what happened.

"I cannot send any of the lord's men to accompany you, but there is a married couple - they fought in the War together under the King's banner - they were closer to Alain than most. I suppose they all had their experience in the war as common ground. They might be willing to help you find him." Rosalyn smiled, and nodded her head in agreement.

Leaving the two guards behind, Giraud and Rosalyn left his home and found their way up the road to where the couple lived. Rosalyn waited patiently outside as Giraud entered alone to explain the situation to her prospective companions.

At last the door opened, and Giraud was followed outside by two tall and lean Bretons. They inspected Rosalyn closely and wordlessly, and after a moment shared a silent look. Some sign passed between them, and the woman turned to nod at Giraud.

"We will help her."

The crack of a log splitting in the fire brought Rosalyn out of her memories, and back into their campsite in the dark forest.

Jeanne sat silently across from her, fletching arrows for her husband's quiver. The small fire between them illuminated her work, and cast gentle shadows across her high-boned features.

"Husband," she said softly, a smile coloring her voice, "I can hear you."

A sigh emanated from outside the circle of firelight, and the other member of their little party stalked resentfully into sight, loaded down with firewood.

"Ah, wife," he said, bending down to give her a quick peck on the cheek, "I fall in love with you more and more every day." She chuckled indulgently and pointed out a place for him to unload his burden.

Rosalyn suppressed a smile at their domestic banter, so out of place in these wild surroundings, dressed as they all were in severe armor and weighted down with weapons.

But Jeanne managed, when she wished, to look feminine and seductive even in her bulky armor, and she now turned this skill upon her husband.

"Husband," she murmured in sultry tones, "your arrows are finished."

"Ah," exclaimed Nolan, focusing in on the finely-made arrows and deliberately ignoring her seductive eyes, "thank you, wife." He snatched up his bow and refilled quiver and moved to the side, clearly intent on trying a few of them out. Jeanne gave an exaggerated pout and stood up, adjusting her sword belt about her hips.

"Perhaps I'll go make sure no Thalmor have discovered our camp," she said rather loudly, more for Nolan's benefit than her own, Rosalyn suspected.

"A good idea, wife," he replied, never taking his eyes off the makeshift target he had affixed to a tree trunk, "you never know where those tricky bastards might show up."

Jeanne rolled her eyes in mock-despair at Rosalyn, and moved out into the darkness around their camp, swaying her hips, but making not a sound.

Rosalyn tossed a few logs on the dwindling fire as Nolan practiced his archery, listening to the quiet whisper and solid thunk of the arrow flying from the string and impacting against the hard treetrunk. When he was satisfied with his wife's arrows (as he knew he would be) he returned to sit by the fire.

She looked up at his approach, and he smiled kindly at her.

"Best get some sleep, priestess. We have at least another few days before we reach Daggerfall, and we'll have plenty of work left to do once we're there.

"Don't you worry, Jeanne and I will take the watch tonight, you just rest.

Rosalyn fell into a deep sleep the moment she lay down in her bedroll, and before sleep fully claimed her, she saw the tall man sharpening his long knife, and, for whatever reason, Rosalyn felt utterly safe.

**UH**


	5. Shadows of the Past: Chapter Four

**Blade of the Emperor**

**Book One: Shadows of the Past**

**Chapter Four**

* * *

Thalmor Embassy, Kingdom of Daggerfall, Imperial Province of High Rock, 4E201

A slow rhythm of water dripped from the ceiling and fell in tiny pearls of liquid onto the floor. Two individuals occupied the mage-lit interior of the cell.

One, a Breton, sat with his back to the stone wall. His long brown hair was swept back casually behind his ears, a few strands straying out of position and falling softly to the sides of his hard, stark features. The sharp, defined lines of his jaw were covered in a scraggly stubble, and pale blue eyes glinted in the mage-light like blue diamonds. Crossed in front of him, the man's legs were covered in rough leggings of wool, and seemed not to feel the hard, cold stone beneath them; a rough tunic of wool covered his lean, muscular chest, and his right arm was bound tightly in a sling, while his left rested in his lap.

The subject of the Breton's inspection was an Altmer, the justiciar who had overseen his initial interrogation - and torture. He was tall, and even seated in a wooden chair he managed to convey an impression of aquiline superiority. His name was Maenan, and he surveyed the prisoner with a professional appraisal, managing at once to convey both hatred and intense curiosity.

Maenan was young for an Altmer - barely fifty years old - and his rank and station were unusual for one of his comparative youth. Skill and a devotion to his career had given him a significant advantage over the advancement of his peers, and when he had finished his training he had been made justiciar almost immediately, and sent to second a more experienced member of the Thalmor.

At first glance, the Thalmor embassy at Daggerfall was not immediately a posting which would excite anticipation. Though a well-built and comfortable compound, well-staffed and well-guarded, it was one of the longest occupied, and situated in a province which did not, on the whole, seem to offer much to challenge an energetic agent of the Thalmor.

But for Maenan the opportunities were ripe and appealing; the Bretons were a subtle and intricate people, their court intrigues infamous for their complexity and daring; all this presented endless puzzles for his acute mind, agents to be acquired, and secrets to be uncovered. But the chance to work under a Mer who had operated within the province for as long as Maenan had been alive was perhaps the most attractive.

And yet... there was something strange about Lylim, something Maenan could not quite put his finger on.

The Breton still bore the marks left by his initial torture at Maenan's hands, but they seemed faded and indistinct; they were healing well, and the man's broken right arm was well-bandaged. Maenan frowned; the Bretons as a race were a naturally resistant and hardy people, especially to magicka, but that could not explain such rapid recovery.

According to Lylim, the Breton had been cooperative so far, giving as much information as he was asked for, though the exact trend of questioning had been left vague. What was curious to Maenan was the fact that during the initial phases of the Breton's inprocessing, he had been remarkably resilient to the torture Maenan had himself applied; he had expected the actual acquisition of information to be a much longer and more difficult process, perhaps requiring Lylim to summon Maenan as an assistant in the interrogation.

But this had not happened, and now, it was easily apparent that the Breton was not being tortured at all: he had simply folded. Maenan felt a small surge of pride at the thought that his efforts had been sufficient to convince the prisoner to reveal his information.

The Breton was a Blade, Lylim had told him, in one of his rare expansive moods, one of the last still to freely walk the lands of Tamriel: sword-brother to Titus Mede II, and present at many of the great moments of that beleaguered emperor's reign. Many secrets could be had of him, Maenan knew, and was puzzled at Lylim's handling of the man.

His eyes took in the lithe, lean man in front of him, and he frowned at the sight of his prisoner unbound by any restraints. By Lylim's orders, the guards had explained, and that, too, had been the answer when he had questioned them about the extravagant (for a prisoner) meals which were being provided to him. What was special about this one? What was so different?

Lylim had not been present at the Breton's capture, indeed he had been expressly ordered to remain behind. But as his thoughts pondered the events of the last few weeks, the ostensible reason that Lylim had provided for leaving him behind - that there should always be a justiciar present to run the embassy - seemed less and less valid.

The "embassy" was nothing more than a thin veneer to the presence of an armed camp within Imperial territory, providing a base for - among other clandestine activities - the Thalmor and their agents to comb the provinces in search of Talos worshippers and any remaining Blades who had managed to slip their nets.

But Lylim had operated at the embassy alone for many years, indeed, most justiciars did so, and besides, the resistance offered by the Breton on his capture certainly had been anticipated - they had even discussed it between them when making plans for his apprehension. So why did Lylim choose to leave his assistant behind when his arcane skills might have been of use: the difference, perhaps, between success and failure?

"What are you hiding?" he asked his prisoner softly. The Breton looked up, and their eyes met.

* * *

The clatter of dice against the stone floor of the barracks filled the ground floor. An expectant hush fell on the group, and a discordant cry of dismay and victory arose from the gathered company; it was a large game, and they had been playing for nearly an hour, their duties done for the day, and the next watch having another half hour before being called. Coins traded hands, the woes of a second ago already forgotten, and soon the dice were flying again, dancing to the discordant music of the gambling circle.

When not in use as a gambling arena, the stone room served as the primary barracks for the Thalmor Embassy in Daggerfall. It was filled, mostly, by tall wooden bunk-beds, and lit by mage's lights that gave the room a cast of daylight even in the twilight which engulfed the outside embassy.

On the opposite side of the barracks from the gamblers, though still close enough to hear them, sat a dark-looking Altmer. Asliel was not normally a brooder, and both his superiors and his comrades had taken note of the change in the young Mer. But, they realized, the loss of a close friend could often change someone; usually, though, the more dramatic effects were often temporary and the melancholy would pass into a vivid but distant memory. A few days, perhaps a week, and all would be well; duty, they said, and occupation would keep his mind from too many dark corners, and indeed they had kept him busy, but there were only so many tasks to be done, and for the last hour Asliel had been left to his own devices.

In the light of the arcane lanterns, he saw the flashing blue of the Breton's eyes, full of pale fury and murderous intent; in the slim shadows he saw the curving arc of a dark Akaviri blade; in the clatter of dice he heard the death-rattle of his friend's breath vacating his lifeless body. Eyes wearied by grief and long days of toil fluttered closed.

Kael and Asliel had both arrived at Daggerfall - their first posting - with the new justiciar, Maenan, aboard a light, breezy craft which had sailed gently and swiftly into port. Asliel could still remember walking around on the ship's deck enjoying the sea-breeze and the splash of spray on his face; Kael had been in the ship's rigging, having volunteered to assist the captain's crew early in the voyage. A childhood aboard boats had its advantages.

Four other soldiers had accompanied them across the sea from the Summerset Isles; they were all new, all young: none had served in the First War, and most were under fifty. Even the justiciar, they had been surprised to realize, was as young as they.

Skeptical and wary of him at first, they had soon warmed to the aquiline justiciar, attracted to his presence, his command, and his fervent devotion to the Thalmor cause. If they had been firm in their belief before the voyage, by the time they reached Daggerfall they had acquired a steadfast conviction.

During that time, they had all become close and had enjoyed the sense of adventure and excitement which accompanied a new and interesting locale. But the justiciar had wasted no time in traveling on from the port to their destination, and they marched through the nights, resting only briefly until they arrived at the Embassy.

Once there, the group's familial attitude was rather abruptly shattered by their immersion into a much larger clan. Though they were gathered together at the beginning for some ad-hoc training designed to get them up to speed with the rest of the embassy's guard, they had, for the most part, been divided fairly evenly among the various watches.

The pecking order had been quickly established, and as they might have guessed, the newcomers fell to its bottom.

Five soldiers, tough, battle-scarred veterans who had fought together in the First War and countless other, smaller, conflicts, bereft of acknowledged rank or privilege, effectively ran the company of fifty soldiers garrisoning the Embassy.

Beneath them were ten or fifteen other veterans of the First War who were not known to the Five, and thus were considered individuals of lesser, but still notable achievement.

The remaining balance, "the novices," consisted of a mix of newer and older soldiers who had been stationed at the embassy from a few months to more than a year. Most of these had not fought in the War, and had gained their experience in the little raids and terrors of a soldier's day-to-day existence.

The last group consisted of the prison guards, who were permanently attached to the justiciars and the embassy; they were a law unto themselves and rarely mixed socially with the other soldiers.

But on the whole, these groups coexisted relatively peacefully, with the occasional mild-mannered hazing to remind the young to respect their betters.

It was such a heterogenous collection of individuals that was currently absorbed in the barrack's dice game, about fifteen individuals: two of the Five (Valmir and Aiden, who had fought together in the War and seemed never to leave each other's side) were joined by four or five of the veterans and another eight of the novices, eager to associate with their betters.

"What did you think of the new prisoner?" asked one of the novices during a short lull, and a slightly subdued silence settled over the company.

"He was a Blade," answered Aiden, with a shrug of his broad shoulders, "saw plenty of them in the War."

"I heard he fought well," said another.

"Aye, he'd have to wouldn't he?" replied Aiden, eyeing the novice with the look that age reserves for irrepressible youth, "he was the Emperor's sword-brother, after all, wasn't he?

"And no," he continued, cutting off the next question before it was asked, "I won't tell you about Red Ring, nor will anyone who was there, so don't bother asking." A stern glance at all the novices. "So, are you ready to play dice?"

Another voice overrode his hopes. "I heard from one of the guards that the prisoner's being fed from the justiciar's stores." This caused a ruckus, as each soldier began demanding to know why a prisoner - a Blade - was being fed better than they were. "I heard they don't even shackle him anymore. The justiciar" - by which they meant Lylim, for Maenan was never called justiciar - "visits him every evening and they talk for hours."

"No torture?"

The first speaker, named Gannar, shook his head, and drew further indignant sounds from the gathered company.

"What do they talk about?"

But Gannar only shrugged. "The guard couldn't really say, but it never sounds like anything important... just about his life, the things that happened to him."

"Singing like a bird, it sounds to me," rumbled Valmir, rolling his shoulders back and poking his friend in the ribs with an elbow, "it must really get under the boy's skin for the Blade to cave to Lylim without more than a harsh word."

"You really shouldn't call him that," accused a voice from inside the circle, bridling at the dismissive tone in Valmir's voice.

"Easy, kid," restrained one of the veterans, placing a calming hand on the younger man's arm.

Asliel's eyes flipped open. "Why is he even still alive, anyway?" his voice tight and angry. He swung his legs off his bunk and stalked over to the group. The veterans watched him disinterestedly.

"Information," contributed one, clearly considering the matter closed.

"Fuck that. I want to know why a Blade, who killed four of us, is being treated better than we are." He stared at Valmir and Aiden. "Can you explain that Valmir, or you Aiden?" The two veterans were silent. "You can't, can you? What's so damn special about this Breton? Why is that whoreson treated with more respect than I am? He's a filthy half-breed, and we should have put him down the second we captured him, not keep him like a disgusting pet."

"That's enough, boy," said Valmir firmly, and stood, "show respect."

A hush settled on the group, and Asliel looked around to his fellows for support, but most of the novices avoided his gaze, and the veterans merely watched him with placid indifference. After a moment, Aiden rose and stood beside his friend, presenting an imposing picture to the inexperienced mer in front of them.

"Asliel!" called a voice, and the tension broke. All the novices and a few veterans looked towards the voice's source; the others, including Aiden and Valmir, kept their gaze firmly on Asliel.

The young mer turned to see who called for him; it was Irinwe, the one who had helped him carry the Breton down into the prison - what seemed like so long ago.

"Justiciar Maenan wishes to speak with you."

Asliel stared at her for a long moment before she motioned emphatically to him and he followed her dumbly out of the barracks and towards the main embassy building.

"What's this about?" he whispered at her as they crossed the courtyard.

"How am I supposed to know?" she hissed back, "he said to find you and bring you to his office; that's all I know."

The courtyard now seemed much smaller to Asliel, and they crossed it far more quickly than he would have preferred, and soon found himself before the door of the justiciar. Irinwe knocked three times, and flashed a quick encouraging smile back at him.

"Enter," came the command, and Irinwe held the door open for Asliel and shut it after him.

"Good evening, Asliel, how are you faring?"

"I am well, justiciar, thank you."

Maenan's eyebrow arched elegantly. "Indeed?" He studied Asliel at length, seemingly committing his face to memory. Apparently satisfied, he turned away, presenting his back to the increasingly confused Asliel. "I was sorry to hear about Kael, your friend. I remember him from our journey here."

Asliel said nothing.

"I will be honest," he continued, "I am - both personally, and professionally - disgusted by the treatment of our prisoner." His voice grew heated. "He is allowed meals from Justiciar Lylim's table, his cell is kept warm and lit, he is clothed - he is not even bound. I cannot comprehend..." Maenan stopped, pausing a moment to regain his composure.

"I am sure you agree that this is very bizarre behavior - even for Justiciar Lylim?"

Their eyes met, and Maenan sensed Asliel's hesitation.

"You may speak freely; there are no repercussions."

Another second's hesitation and then, "...Yes, justiciar, I find it very strange."

"I have spoken with some of the more experienced members of our garrison, and I confess I found them somewhat... inflexible. From what I could glean, however, Justiciar Lylim is sometimes subject to these flights of fancy - though never, it seems, to this extreme." He paused, his eyes searching. "To keep a half-breed mongrel like that here, in the very heart of our presence in High Rock..." Maenan trailed off, and Asliel thought he saw him shudder in revulsion. "I feel unclean every time I visit that cell.

Piercing eyes locked on his own.

"Do you know what I mean?"

"I believe I do, sir."

Maenan met his eyes, and they were bright with excitement. "Good. I feel that I may trust you, mayn't I, Asliel?" he asked, and Asliel began to feel penned in, as if the walls of some elaborate trap had been triggered, and were now inexorably closing in, bringing the episode to its inevitable conclusion.

"Of course you may trust me, sir."

"I believe that there is something that Lylim is attempting to extract from the prisoner, some tool perhaps, or weapon, perhaps even knowledge. But he wants it for himself; not for the Thalmor, not for the Dominion: for himself.

"And I want you to help me find out what it is. Tell me, was there anything retrieved along with the prisoner? Items of any sort, packages perhaps? Think." Maenan's voice was low and intense.

Asliel thought, his mind reluctantly turning back to that dark, terrible night, when he and the other novices had been rushed from the house, the prisoner in tow, while Lylim and the veterans ransacked the house before putting it to the torch.

It had been difficult to see in the poor light, but Asliel concentrated. Yes! There had been; several things had been brought from the house and wrapped in packaging. He related what he had seen to Maenan in as much detail as he could, and the justiciar seized on it, convinced that therein lay the clue to Lylim's strange behavior.

"That must be it," the justiciar concluded, "it must be. If only we knew what they were." A thought formed in his head. "You must do this for me."

"Me, sir?"

Maenan nodded. "If Lylim truly is seeking something for personal gain, he will not allow me to get near it; but it is surely guarded, perhaps we could arrange for you and a partner to take a turn guarding the items - that would afford you the chance to inspect them and give me a report."

"Sir, we don't know where the items are being kept."

Maenan sat and steepled his fingers before his face. "Yes, that is a dilemma. But we will persevere, make what inquiries you can among your fellows - Irinwe will do the same: she may be trusted. Once that is done, report to me, and I will see about changing the rotation of the guard."

With that he was dismissed, and as the door closed behind him, Asliel shared a wary look with Irinwe. They were on dangerous ground, and it threatened to tear out from beneath them.

* * *

Lylim sat behind his writing desk in a large, luxurious room in the embassy's main building. Plush seats faced him from across the desk, and richly woven rugs covered the cool stone floor and leather-bound books covered the walls. It was designed to intimidate, to seduce, to impress the visitor with the power, wealth, and influence of the Thalmor. And it succeeded, Lylim admitted, but he had always been uncomfortable with such extravagance.

Maenan was not, though, and had taken to the lush interior like a fish to water, seeming born within those very surroundings. Lylim had seen it when they had first met, and it was ever more obvious to how very much things had changed. The Thalmor had been different before the War: harder, leaner, with the rough attitude of those on the edge.

Power had clearly had its effect, though, and the young, fresh justiciar who had arrived not so long ago was living proof of that. To him, Lylim was a relic, a tool created to establish the power of the Dominion and whose usefulness had long passed into history. During Lylim's training, the justiciars had been more soldier than agent, better suited for the long hardships of travel and campaign than the soft annoyances of occupation and diplomacy.

That was not to say that Maenan was not a formidable adversary, but the focus had shifted from one paradigm to another, and left Lylim behind. It was likely that Maenan would soon be ordered to take over the embassy, and Lylim would be returned to the Summerset Isles to continue any service that the Thalmor judged him capable of rendering. It was a depressing prospect.

Nevertheless, Maenan was tenacious and energetic, as the report he had just received from one of the prison guards indicated that Maenan had spent considerable time downstairs with the Breton prisoner. Lylim had been furious when the report had reached him, and he had considered summoning Maenan at once in order to resolve the situation immediately. But according to the prison guards, Maenan had not molested the prisoner in any way, and had merely sat with him in the cell for half an hour.

What was he up to?

It was natural, Lylim supposed, to be curious about a new prisoner, but something about the behavior of his fellow justiciar these last few days would not let him accept that as the explanation: there was something else going on.

But enough. Lylim rose from his seat and gathered his robes about him, nodding to the guard at his door as he passed through and down the stairs to the courtyard, and to the prison beyond.

The guards at the prisoner's door opened it as he approached, entering before him to ensure that the prisoner made no attempts to escape. But as he entered, Lylim could see that such thoughts were well-contained behind the stoic mask that his prisoner wore at all times.

Eduard was sitting on the floor with his good arm wrapped around his knees, and his hard blue eyes followed Lylim as he entered and sat on one of the chairs brought in by a guard. When the second chair was placed, Lylim began.

"Good evening," he said, and invited Eduard to sit. After a moment, the prisoner stood stiffly and sat slowly in the wooden chair provided for him. "How was your meal?" Lylim inquired.

Eduard nodded, "Very good, thank you."

"Excellent," Lylim smiled, and spread his hands widely, "I hoped that you would enjoy it."

Eduard arched an eyebrow.

"My cook learned when she was in Farrun, and I had her prepare it for you."

A slow nod of the head, a small smile, and a desire to compliment the chef.

Lylim smiled expansively. "I will do so, of course." The elegant hands folded themselves in his lap. A pause. "How are you this evening?" A shrug and a rueful glance at his broken arm. "Indeed." returned Lylim, "I hear you had a visitor." A nod. "Did he ask you anything?" A shake of the head. "Nothing?" Another negation. "How strange."

Silence filled the cell as Lylim quieted, and the two men looked at each other.

Lylim held up an amulet in his hand, extended so that Eduard could see it clearly; it was an amulet of Kynareth.

"Do you have faith, Eduard?"

"'Faith?'" echoed the Breton.

Lylim shrugged, "Perhaps 'conviction' is a better word."

"What is there to have faith in?" asked Eduard, "other than men? The gods have little care for us, if that is what you mean." Eduard looked back at Lylim, "the only gods I have seen are those we make ourselves, justiciar; the only evil that which we bring about ourselves.

"I carry her amulet because she is my patroness, because I choose to believe that she has some interest in me; because it comforts me in times like this."

"And what of Talos?"

"What of him?"

"You were a Blade: did you not revere him?"

Eduard frowned. "Yes, we revered him, I suppose, but there was never much devotion to him - that I saw, at least - or felt."

"I see."

Lylim inspected the man in front of him, a man who must have seen many things in his years. Though barely more than a child by the standards of the Altmer, to those among men he would be seen as a veteran, experienced in many things and carrying the weight of many years. He sighed.

"What do you regret, Eduard, most of all?"

There was no answer, just the cold stare of those pale blue eyes, but Lylim continued.

"We both of us, I think, have done much in our lives that we wish reversed. How long do you think we are punished for that?"

"To the end, justiciar, from what I have seen."

"But who delivers that punishment? Other men? Ourselves? Who? The gods? Who has the right to judge us for something that happened thirty years ago, or three-hundred? Are we the same men we were then?"

Eduard looked at Lylim oddly, his eyebrows lowered as he evaluated the justiciar, and Lylim felt the penetrating gaze.

"You know the answer to that question, justiciar."

"Yes. I do."

Their eyes met, and understanding passed between them in the long pause that followed.

"Do you know how we found you?" Eduard shook his head.

"My colleague in Skyrim captured another Blade, one of the last." Eduard's face froze again into its perilous mask. "He had passed through North Point on his way to Solitude, and he recognized you as you left the temple. When Elenwen - my colleague in Skyrim - caught him in the wilderness and tortured him, she was able to extract that encounter from him and inform me of it."

Lylim could see the hard glint of despair and anger in Eduard's eyes, but he pressed on.

"We have many..." he paused, choosing the right euphemism, "...contacts, among the nobility in High Rock. And fortunately for us, one of those contacts happened to be lord of a little village outside North Point." Here he nodded, confirming the realization that he saw growing in Eduard's eyes. "It was an easy matter to trail you and have our contact facilitate your capture.

"We are hounded by the lives we have lived, Eduard. That is our fate."

* * *

The month that passed after the Prince's visit went quickly for me and my family. Louis and I practiced our swordplay, and my father insisted that I begin learning to use a lance. I was only twelve, and Louis had not started until he was fourteen, but my father said that I was strong enough and that it was passed time that I should begin.

Our eldest brother, Herluin, had spent the last month constantly at our father's side, afraid, I think, that he would be unprepared to assume our father's duties should the worst happen. Despite his serious nature, he was the best of us: the rare firstborn who lives up to and exceeds his father's expectations. Wise, kind, and loyal, he promised to be a great lord. The two knights who owed my father their service liked him a great deal, for they too could see his promise.

Louis and I were well suited to what we were destined to become: bachelor knights spending our years roaming High Rock, questing for this or that treasure, or, perhaps, in service to a wealthy lord. We were not concerned with politics or the business of ruling a manor as Herluin was; we spent our days roaming the wilderness around the manor and play-fighting monsters and evil men with our wooden swords; we dreamed of finding a great war-leader and riding into battle beside him, or even making our own banner, to which men would flock in search of victory.

Time, I think, moves more slowly for children, for I remember it being a long time after Prince Hastrel had left that everything changed.

I was outside the manor practicing against a quintain when the messenger arrived, both he and his horse were winded, and the guards quickly let him through. I had reined up my horse with difficulty when I saw his approach, and the stop had made me lose my grip on the practice lance.

Louis had been watching from the sidelines, and laughed when he saw me drop the lance. I pointed to the messenger and he stopped at once, becoming serious once more. We left the horses with a stablehand and hurried into the manor, where Herluin, my father and mother had gathered to hear the messenger's news.

The atmosphere was tense, and even our rather noisy entrance did not distract from the messenger's news: Jehenna was marching on Farrun, and my father had been summoned to muster with the rest of the army.

Our manor exploded into violent activity the instant the messenger was shown out as both my mother and father began to make the various preparations that would be required for a campaign.

That night, as I lay in my bed, I could hear raised voices coming from my parents' room down the hallway. At the time I did not know what the problem was, but in the morning when I woke, I discovered that my father intended to take all his sons to war with him - including me. My mother, apparently, had been less than enthusiastic.

All had been made ready when we woke in the morning, and my father took me aside in a quiet moment, and gave me a suit of mail and a sword, and even a shield and tabard with my own symbol: "a white raven," he told me, ruffling my hair as I looked up at him, stunned, "for the wisest of my sons."

I did not feel wise, then or now, and I had no words to thank him; but he just smiled lovingly down at me and patted me on the shoulder. "You'd best put that armor on, son; we'll be leaving soon." I nodded and rushed off.

When I came back, I saw that Louis had been given a similar gift, and we smiled and embraced; we felt like knights that day, gods help us. It was then that I saw my mother, pale and beautiful in her traveling clothes, mounted on her horse beside my father. She looked at the two of us, and smiled sadly at our enthusiasm.

Sooner, I think, than my mother might have wished, we arrived at Farrun, the tents and encampments of the army's various detachments clustered against its great walls; we were some of the last to arrive, and two days later we went out to meet Jehenna by the sea.

The armies met each other at midday, a few days march from Farrun; it was clear that Jehenna wished to come to grips with us, and almost immediately formed a battle line before us.

We were still so disposed as to be able to refuse a battle if we so desired, but the King was determined to end this conflict here and now, and so we formed our own line against Jehenna's. Louis, I, and my mother retired to the rear with the other noncombatants, and found ourselves on a low hill overlooking the battlefield. My brother and I did not wish to leave our father and eldest brother to face the battle alone, but my mother put her arms around us and hushed our protests and drew us away to safety.

My father rode away almost immediately, his gear and tack jangling in time with his horse's gait, until he was far away with the rest of the king's men. But our brother hesitated; I remember looking up into his face as he sat ahorse, his face calm and his eyes pale: I remember thinking that he looked like a man at peace; I think somehow he knew that this battle would be the death of him.

A moment passed between us then, in some profound sense that I still am not sure I understand, but at that moment I felt that I knew my brother better than I ever had - or, perhaps, ever would again.

The battle which followed took place beside the sea, a most poetic location, and the bards made much of it in the days and years which followed. There is a particularly famous rendition by some poet or another that even now may be heard in the more learned quarters of the city.

But the battle itself is of no interest to us, so I will spare you the intricate details and give only the briefest of accounts.

We had expected to outnumber the army of Jehenna, but in truth our forces were nearly equal in weight of infantry, but only because of large mercenary contingent the king had hired - though in cavalry we were superior.

The battle began with an exchange of arrows from the bowmen on each side. The range was great, and the exchange was indecisive, each captain unwilling to approach too close for fear of isolation and attack by cavalry.

Next followed an infantry clash, the great, ponderous bodies of men moving slowly and reluctantly forward to desultorily collide with their opponents in long, but likewise indecisive engagements.

I have heard many songs of battles, great and small, and always, it seems the crowning moment of every battle occurs in a great clash of triumphant cavalry over the cringing hordes of the enemy. This creates the unfortunate impression that cavalry is an unstoppable force which rides across the battlefield wrecking ruin and despair on all those in their path.

But in truth, determined infantry who stand their ground against a cavalry charge are essentially immune; a horse is in some ways much more intelligent than the man riding it, and will not attempt to force its way through a large group of men who are yelling and shoving sharp sticks at it. Indeed it will much rather buck its rider off and find some other patch of earth to call its own.

It is only when the infantry run, when discipline and order break down and an army becomes a loose aggregate of individuals do cavalry come into their own; it is then, above all else, that the cavalry shines, and then it is like the songs.

But when the infantry didn't break us, Jehenna tried its cavalry; they charged against our line, but we held, for two more charges we held, and Jehenna began to retire. Then it was our turn, and our knights charged through our infantry - a tricky maneuver, but they were successful - and caught the enemy knights in the rear. Indeed it looked as if the day was won - and it might have been, had treachery not risen amongst us.

As the knights were engaged in the battlefield's center, with the infantry anxiously watching the outcome, my mother clutched my arm and pointed. I looked at her first, and seeing her ashen face, I followed her gaze; my brother was focused on the same point indicated by her slim finger.

The company of mercenaries had turned on us, crashing into the right flank of our army. I watched with sick fascination as the Jehenna army immediately advanced on us as we were put to confusion. In the center our knights began to retreat, but our main line was so disrupted and confused by the sudden appearance of an enemy force on their flank that they could not pass easily through. The knights crashed into our force of infantry, disrupting some and panicking others; we watched in horror as our army began to dissolve before our eyes.

A horse whinnied, and as I looked I saw a large force of mounted men emerge from the trees to the south; I did not recognize their banners, and as my eyes met Louis', I knew that we were done. The enemy had brought another force around us and caught us.

I drew my sword, and moved in front of my mother; Louis did likewise. Screams began to fill the air as the others there on the hill began fleeing, tearing through their possessions to save what could be saved. But the enemy was too close, and running would be of no avail against these hardened men; they were not knights, and were not weighed down by heavy armor - they were the right tool for the right task: corralling and capturing runners and valuable stragglers.

I could see the leader smirk as he approached us, the sounds of the dying battle carrying up the hill towards us.

"You're going to want to drop those swords, boy," he told us when they were about ten yards from us. He was a tall man, hard-looking, and sat in his saddle as if he had been born in it. The smile which creased his face was not one of cheer, but of a lion about to spring on its prey.

"Why?" asked Louis, in an attempt at defiance.

The smile disappeared. "Because if you don't, I'll kill both of you and rape your mother instead of ransoming you to to any worthless relations you might be fortunate enough to possess."

I could hear screaming behind us where the others had fled, hoping to escape back to Farrun; the enemy had hidden cavalry there too. What were we to do?

I looked to my brother; he stared at me; the man waited, and finally, I nodded, and dropped my sword.

In the battle's bloody aftermath, we were taken with the rest of the prisoners back to the enemy camp, and there apportioned. We were placed in a long line with many other prisoners; it was hot, and the sun beat mercilessly down on us. My throat was parched dry, and ached for water.

We must have been left there for hours, my mother on one side and my brother on the other; other nobles, both knights and the ladies that had so foolishly accompanied them, were kept there with us. I drifted off into exhaustion, unaware of my surroundings, until I felt myself being shaken. I opened my eyes and saw a tall, handsome young man kneeling in front of me; he smiled gently when he saw me look at him.

It took me a minute, as my mind slowly re-engaged, to recognize my father's younger brother - my uncle.

"You're all right," he said, "good."

I did not truly understand him at that moment, and in a daze I watched as my brother and mother were freed from their bonds, and helped onto horses; I sat behind Louis on a big brown mare.

"You're under my protection, now; you'll be safe," assured my uncle, and indeed, we were surrounded by men all bearing the sigil he wore on his long surcoat. He and his men led us to what appeared to be his part of the enemy encampment - my father's brother had risen far under Jehenna's king - and were led gently into a large tent.

My mother was the first to enter, and as she wearily pushed aside the tent flap she halted suddenly and gasped. Louis and I looked worriedly at her, but as suddenly as she had stopped she burst into motion and rushed headlong into the tent's interior; we followed quickly behind and saw that both our father and eldest brother were there as well: bloodied and covered in dirt and the mire of the battlefield - but alive.

Sobbing, my mother had flung herself down before my father, her arms about his knees and her head in his lap. He stroked her hair gently, and murmured reassuringly to her as he gently raised her again to her feet, and bade her sit beside him.

Louis and I ran to embrace Herluin, and he held us, one arm around each, and we saw that a large wound in his side had been skillfully tended-to. He was obviously in pain when I looked into his eyes, but he merely nodded at me and told me that he was "all right."

I looked over at my father and saw him staring at something behind me; I turned to see my uncle watching us, standing on the far side of the tent. A gentle smile was on his face.

"Thank you, brother," my father said, "for saving my family."

My uncle spread his hands and stepped towards us. "How could I do anything else? We are opposed at this moment, but we are kin, you and I, and that is a bond greater than any fealty."

I felt my father relax a little, and he looked gratefully at his brother and hugged my mother tighter to him. "What will happen now?"

My uncle spread his hands again and turned away from us to look out the open tent flap. "I do not know for certain. I believe we will begin the final march on Farrun tomorrow. You will be safe, that is sure - you are under my protection - but after Farrun is taken… I do not know. I may be able to find a place for you under the new King if he will accept you."

"Why would he?"

"Why not?" countered my uncle. "You are a bold and loyal man, and you are my brother; if I vouched for you I do not believe there is much that the King would deny you - he will have need of such men in the days to come."

My father was silent, and my uncle continued to stare out the tent flap, his eyes moving over the comings and goings of the camp.

"We will need to quickly establish our hold over this new land. The Empire is too weak and slothful to move against us, but we must be prepared for conflict with the other kingdoms - they will not hesitate to strike - and quickly - if they sense weakness."

"I see," answered my father.

"Yes," said my uncle, turning from the entrance, "I knew you would. Your other alternative would be ransom; we have family in the other kingdoms who might could afford it - though I doubt it.

"You do not have to answer now. Sleep on it, and when we reach Farrun give me your answer." He nodded respectfully to my mother, smiled at us, and left.

There was too much for us to say to each other, so we said nothing, content to sit in each other's company.

The next morning we were awakened by one of my uncle's men, who told us that the army was preparing to march. I did not know what Farrun would do; its army had been shattered, its leaders dead or captured or scattered to the four winds. Would they resist? Or would they open their gates at the first sight of Jehenna's army?

And what effect would their choice have on my family? All these things I wondered as we rode west towards my home.

**UH**


End file.
